


the 08:13 to someday, maybe

by SmilinStar



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/M, Slow Burn, dual point of views, train romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-03-26 13:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13858803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: The smirk on her face softens into a genuine smile and suddenly his palms feel sweaty, and he realises his hand is still holding hers. He moves to pull away, but she only grips tighter.“Seethat? That right there is how I figure you’re an interesting guy.”And then she surprises him, one last time. Pulling him in closer, she reaches up onto her tiptoes and whispers in his ear. “Because that is definitely not your real name.”Or: the Sara Lance, (ex-)PI & Rip Hunter, fugitive AU no one asked for.





	1. No smoking

**Author's Note:**

> Hell, if I know what this is. The idea definitely seemed cooler in my head, but then most things do.

 

*

 

The platform is packed.

The overhead announcement that there are severe delays on the line does nothing to smooth the sharp edges of her scowl. She’d hoped that it would be enough to persuade people to give her a wide berth this morning, but apparently the day-to-day rigours of commuting into Star City had beaten the survival instinct out of them. Like caged wild cats born in captivity, finally escaping, only to flounder in the freedom of the jungle.

A bald, stodgy man in a too-tight, expensive grey suit, practically bursting at the seams, steps into her side. She nearly gets his elbow in her face as he opens up his broadsheet newspaper and carries on reading without so much as an apology. The woman on her other side is talking a mile a minute into her cell phone with a grating, nasal tone about some upcoming spa-day that she’s just so _‘gosh-darn excited about!’_

In her thirty years on this Earth, Sara Lance knows she has a lot to learn about herself, but the one thing she does know with certainty, is that patience is not a virtue she possesses. Nor will she. Ever.

She desperately resists the urge she has to rip the woman’s phone from her hand and throw it onto the train tracks, and just plain old rip the man’s _Star City Ledger_ to shreds in front of him. She’s not sure either will go down well, and she’s not in the mood to draw attention to herself. She’s done enough of that for a lifetime and can hear Laurel’s exasperated voice, loud and clear, _“For the love of god, Sara, could you please not do anything so goddamn stupid! Again!”_ And so, she takes a deep breath in and out instead, focusses on the distant sound of metal wheels squealing against metal tracks, and tries to push everything else to the background. The sound gets louder and louder, until it’s screeching to a halt right in front of her, and _freakin’ hallelujah! Finally!_

She waits (impatiently) for people to get off the train first before pushing her way on. This is only day three of who the hell knows how many days of purgatory. Some would say it’s self-inflicted; Sara thinks it’s more the by-product of a corrupt and blind legal system. Or maybe it’s the judge that Damien Darhk has in his back pocket that’s landed her three hundred and sixty-five days of community service working at the homeless shelter downtown. Of course, that hadn’t been enough for the bastard and so they’d taken her investigative licence too. According to Laurel though, she’d got away lightly, only for the fact that Darhk was a sadistic bastard who actually liked getting punched across his face. Still, if there’s one thing Sara feels remorse for, it’s that her rash actions put the case her sister had been meticulously putting together against the city’s smarmy mobster in serious jeopardy. Laurel was, and still is, understandably, pissed.

Nothing she can do about it now though, anyway. What’s done is, as they say, _done_.

The carriage she steps onto is full. All the seats are taken and so she grabs hold of one of the poles and plants her feet. Headphones already covering her ears, she swipes her finger across her phone and the music starts playing, loud enough to drown out the noise of the train as it moves off.

Sara pays little attention to the people around her. Just like her fellow passengers ignore her and everyone else. Most are engrossed in whatever they’ve got up on the screens of their cell phones; some are reading, a few dozing against the headrests, others lucky enough to get a window seat are staring out over the city – not that it makes for pretty scenery. One such man sits just across from her on the other side of the carriage, rear facing, fingers drumming on the table in front of him beside an abandoned newspaper. Darhk’s eyes peer soullessly up from just above the crease. The headline reads: DARKH DONATES $10bn TO CHILDREN’S HOSPICE.

_What a crock of steaming bullshit._

She looks away from the newspaper and back at the fingers drumming an undecipherable beat. The fingers are long, slightly spindly, and for some bizarre reason she can’t look away. It’s not until the motion stops, the fingers curling into a tight fist, knuckles turning white, that she’s shaken out of her stupor and takes a look at who those fingers belong to.

The man is dressed in a long brown coat, a glimpse of a white shirt collar peaks out over the edge. His jawline is covered in days of stubble, the hair a floppy mess at the top and the face? Well, it’s nothing spectacular, sort of handsome maybe, but it’s really the scowl on his lips, the narrowed eyes as he glares at the man sitting beside him, that she feels an affinity for.

The man sitting beside him is bald and burly in a khaki green jacket, with a bottle of beer in his one hand and playing with a lighter in the other.

Sara’s pretty good at reading lips. She thinks the man with a scowl says something along the lines of: “Excuse me, but you can’t do that here,” and points to one of the many no-smoking signs plastered against the walls of the carriage.

The burly man just takes a swig of his beer, and possibly says something along the lines of “and I’m not smoking, English.”

_English?_

Maybe she read that wrong.

She thinks, maybe burly guy has a point, but still, if someone were flicking a lighter open and close under her nose she’d be a little pissed off too and want to throw it out the window.

Scowling man looks away, grumbles something under his breath she can’t quite catch and goes back to staring out the window.

With the short-lived drama done, Sara retreats back into her own world. Luckily, she doesn’t have to inhabit it for very long. A few minutes later, the train pulls into the station just before hers, and she catches a slight movement that has her lips curling into a completely unexpected, surprised smile. And it’s worth noting that very few things make her smile these days.

If she’d given the moment another second’s thought, she would have concluded that the next best thing to throwing burly guy’s lighter out the window would have been to steal his cigarettes, and _what do you know?_ Scowling man does just that with a sleight of hand and skill she can’t help but admire as he slips the packet into the pocket of his own coat. It’s so smooth and slick a transition, she almost misses it. Burly guy definitely doesn’t notice, just stands up and pushes past those still standing in the aisle and makes his way towards the automatic doors.

It’s once the man’s off the train and she can see him through the window, furiously searching his pockets, entirely dumbfounded on the platform, and a barrage of expletives falling from his mouth that no one needs to lipread, does a flicker of a smile cross scowling man’s face and Sara realises she needs to come up with a better name for him.

Because that smirk? It’s _something_ , alright.

He turns then at that moment, looking around him, and she makes a point of not looking away. His eyes find hers with a sudden jolt, and later she’ll tell herself that it had only been courtesy of the train lurching forwards once more at that exact moment, but one day, _maybe_ , she’ll admit it was something else entirely.

She smirks back at him as his own smile falls, a fetching flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck as he realises he’d been caught, before he sharply looks away and never again lets his gaze waver from the window for the rest of their journey.

 

*

 

Rip Hunter decides he bloody well hates this place.

This city. This country.

He wants nothing more than to pack up and leave. Go back home to London and leave this all behind. The reality though, as he very well knows, is that it’s not sunshine and roses that wait for him back there. More like handcuffs and four prison walls. Well, for Michael Carter, anyway.

Rip Hunter, on the other hand, is a Professor of History at Star City College and somehow managed to slip in under the net. Mainly because airport security continue to be bloody idiots. Through racially profiling the man in line next to him, they’d ended up ignoring the _actual_ wanted man standing right in front of them.

_Wanted_.

What a load of bollocks.

Vandal Savage deserves a far worse fate than what he’d got. The bastard’s still breathing, after all.

He’s only been here a few weeks, the autumn – no, _fall_ – semester starting up just under a week ago and already this commute has turned into the most miserable part of his day. Seems public transport is equally horrendous at rush hour on either side of the Atlantic. Lucky for him though, he gets on the 08:13 train to Star City when the carriages are still relatively empty and always manages to find his seat by the window. Contrary to most people, he rather prefers the rear-facing seats, watching the world go by in reverse. He’s positive a psychologist would delve into that and come up with some such nonsense about how it means he’s still living in the past, and deep down he knows they may just be right, but for now he’ll scoff and relegate the thought to a bin labelled ‘tripe’ at the back of his mind.

Today’s copy of the _Star City Ledger_ headlines the charitable donations of one Damien Darhk, philanthropist. _Apparently_. There’s something about his face, though. It rattles a sense of unease, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck – something cold, and uncomfortable, and something he’s finally learning to trust.

That man in that photograph is not who he seems.

He leaves the paper there on the table and turns his gaze on the outside world.

It’s raining a little. Flecks of rainwater land on the window, trickling down the glass with the wind as the train speeds along the tracks. He plays a game – traces two droplets with his eyes, guessing which’ll slide down the furthest, the fastest.

He loses the game just as a man sits down beside him. His large frame is enough to make him shift away, closer to the window. There’s a strong whiff of alcohol and cigarette smoke coming off him, and Rip does his best not to wrinkle his nose at the smell. It isn’t until he hears the familiar slosh of liquid inside a beer bottle that he turns his head to look at the man and throws him a look that can’t be misread as anything other than disapproval.

Feeling his gaze on him, the man turns to look at him. His expression only morphs to one of amusement as he lets out a gruff chuckle, raises his beer bottle in mock salute and takes another, very deliberate, swig.

Rip huffs out a breath and turns away.

He does his best to ignore him. For as long as he can. But then he starts up with the lighter several stops later and he just can’t help himself. It’s a fire hazard.

“Excuse me, but you can’t do that here.”

He simply gets a smirk in return and a shrug. “And I’m not smoking, _English._ ”

Oh and that mocking tone, he thinks, can go take a hike as he sits there and stews in his seat. To anyone else, it probably wouldn’t have been a big deal, but to _him?_ It most definitely is, and for reasons he’s not keen to revisit. Not when he spends most of his nights dwelling on them and reliving his nightmares.

And so he does it.

He knows he’s potentially fighting fire with fire – he’s a scrawny thing okay, he’s man enough to admit it, and the guy looks like he could bench press three of him – but he knows he’s still got the knack for it.

Slipping his hand into the man’s pocket, he easily retrieves his pack of cigarettes and just as easily slips it into his own coat.

There’s a sad lack of appreciation for the art of pick-pocketing these days.

Rip waits until the man is off the train, searching his jacket futilely as he stands there on the platform, before he lets his lips curl into a victorious smirk. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s the best he can manage.

He shifts ever so slightly in his seat then, just to take a surreptitious glance around the carriage and make sure no one was watching. Call it paranoia, or perhaps, a gut-feeling.

A gut-feeling that has blonde hair, and blue eyes, and is smirking right back at him as if she’d seen every little thing.

There’s no judgement in her gaze.

No, if anything, its admiration her eyes glimmer with. And just like that his head is snapping back to his window, a blasted blush creeping up his skin as his heart, quite possibly, skips a beat.

He doesn’t look back again.

And when he finally gets off the train, she’s nowhere to be seen.

 

*

*

*

 


	2. Quiet, please

 

*

 

If people thought her scowl was bad before? It’s downright ugly today.

In her rush to get out of the house this morning, and avoid her mother’s phone call, Sara had forgotten her headphones. And so, on this particularly bright September day, she has to endure the awful cacophony of noise and endless chatter on the platform instead of the thumping bass of her playlist – the one that silences all the other loud thoughts in her head. Plus, of course, there’s the godawful screeching and wailing of the train once she’s finally aboard the carriage – yet again without a seat – that’s enough to make for a terrifying thought that this old rust bucket is one loose screw away from falling apart under her feet.

She tries her best to ignore it all.

And she just about manages to. That is up until the unexpected outburst. “Hey! You’re reading my article. No, not _my_ article, I didn’t write it. I mean, my article, cos you know, I patented that. That’s _my work . . ._ ” the loud, overexcited man, tries to quieten his voice and whisper those last two words as if it’s some sort of precious secret, and she can’t help but shake her head. _What an idiot._

“Huh,” comes the response.

And she can literally hear the confusion, the disbelief, and the _fear_ that he’d somehow been accosted by a maniac in that one huff of a syllable.

Intrigued, she turns her head in the direction of the voices. She’s situated in the carriage in such a position that she can barely see over the tops of the seats, but she can see the man who had first spoken quite clearly. Tall, black hair and boyishly handsome. Not her type, but there’s a reason her gaze lingers. She _recognizes_ him.

He, kindly, helps her out by reaching over to shake the hand of whoever was sitting in front of him across the table, in the window seat, and introduces himself. “ _Ray Palmer.”_ Again, in a hushed tone, that’s not so hushed she can’t clearly hear him.

_Ray Palmer? Isn’t he that tech-boy multi-billionaire genius? What the hell is he doing on a freakin’ rush hour commuter train?_

“I’m sorry,” says the other voice this time, clear enough that she can hear the distinct accent. British. _Huh_. “Mr Palmer, I have no idea who you are.”

Ray Palmer just smiles widely, pearly whites on display, not the least bit offended. “Dr Palmer, and that’s okay. I suppose you wouldn’t. Not yet anyway. But soon, maybe. Palmer Tech is hoping to expand across the pond not so far in the foreseeable future.”

“Oh I see.”

There’s a pause. And Sara thinks maybe that’s the end of this _scintillating_ (ha!) conversation, but then he starts up again.

“So, what did you think?” he asks, and the expression on the man’s face can only be described as that of an eager puppy. Sara doesn’t know why she’s still stuck there eavesdropping on this inane back-and-forth, but then she’s been paid to listen in on a lot worse and in any case, something has her feet glued in place, and she can’t find it in herself to stop listening.

“Of?”

“The article? The technology?”

“It’s very interesting. Though I’m struggling to see the use of creating technology to shrink things down to the size of atoms.”

Sara can think of a few, namely shrinking Darhk down to the size of an ant and stepping on him.

Palmer looks slightly crestfallen at the response, and shrugs. “Well, it’s only hypothetical at this point.”

He’s lying. There’s a subtle quaver in his voice, and then there's the diverted eyes – both are classic tell-tale signs. _Interesting._ She doesn’t think the man opposite him spots it though as he clears his throat and tries to lessen the sting. “Says here that you’re the CEO of the company?”

Palmer nods.

“Then you don’t mind me asking why you’re travelling on . . . by . . .” the rest of the sentence fades away, and Sara doesn’t even realise she’s grinning because that was her exact thought too.

“On public transport? Well, you see my regular driver’s wife’s been taken unwell, and I suppose I could have asked for any of the other company cars, but I’ve always loved trains since I was a little boy, and I never really get much of a chance to ride them anymore. So here I am.”

“It’s really not that special.”

“Maybe not to you.”

The Brit doesn’t say anything. The lull is enough time to give Sara pause for thought. Her mind still stuck on replaying that glorious image of squashing Darhk like a bug under her boots. And the more she thinks about it, the more she thinks maybe it could happen.

“I’m sorry,” Palmer says then, “I didn’t get your name?”

“I don’t make a habit of giving strangers my name.”

“But I gave you mine.” He looks slightly taken aback at the response.

“Even though apparently you didn’t need to.”

“True. But you didn’t know that.”

“Good point.”

“So?”

“So, I believe this is our stop.”

Sara looks across the aisle and through the windows of the automatic doors to realise he was right. They had arrived at the last stop.

“It was nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Ray Palmer says, standing up and shaking the man’s hand – the British man without a name. And there’s something about that hand she recognises. Ridiculous, she thinks, and yet she doesn’t move; just stands there and waits as everyone else makes their way off the train.

She watches as the man gets up to follow, and instantly spots the brown coat, that same hairstyle and realises, it’s _him_.

Somehow, subconsciously, she’d been keeping an eye out for him since that first time she’d seen him. Well over a week ago now.

Sara tells herself it’s so she can keep a closer eye on her own belongings, on the watch on her wrist, and the wallet in her pocket, because what other plausible explanation could there be?

She wills him to turn around.

He doesn’t.

Brushes past her instead, stepping off the train and disappearing into the crowded platform.

There’s a story there, she thinks.

And she’s going to find out what it is.

After all, three hundred and fifty-five days left of her purgatory, it’s not like she has anything better to do.

And anyway, digging into people’s lives and upturning secrets? It’s what she’s best at.

(At least, that’s what she tells herself as she follows him, the requisite ten paces behind.)

 

*

 

Rip decides he should broaden his horizons.

It’s why he foregoes his usual copy of the _Star City Ledger_ this morning for this month’s edition of the _New Scientist._

The front cover has a large portrait of a handsome dark-haired young man. The heading at the bottom – _Shrinking Opportunities: the Wunderkind Who’s Widening Our Horizons?_

It’s not his usual field of expertise but something compels him to buy it.

Fate, he thinks.

Because how else can you explain away the chances of that very same man sitting across from him on the 08:13 train to Star City, on this exact day, at this exact moment?

He knows very well who he is as Dr Palmer introduces himself.

He’s not blind. Not when he has the man’s photograph blinking up at him, but he is a little stunned, so he thinks he can be forgiven for only managing to breathe out a confused “huh.”

The rest of the conversation is equally surreal as it is fascinating.

And impressed though he is by the man’s obvious genius, it’s more the genuine warmth and joy for life, that ever-inquisitive thirst for more knowledge and understanding of the world around him, that has him swallowing down the lump in his throat.

Because, once upon time, Rip had felt like that about the world. But it’s nothing but misery and anger now – the world on fire and billows of smoky clouds raining down acid and bile that keeps the inferno burning.

Simply put, Rip’s stuck.

Stuck in the middle of this life, suffocating.

And the only air he’ll ever be able to breathe is when Savage stops breathing the same.

He can’t help it. Imagining Savage shrunk down to the size of nothing but dust under his feet. From the eager smile on Dr Palmer’s face, Rip’s sure the man has never had a single dark thought firing through his synapses. Certainly, therefore, has no such desire to see his technology – which has definitely progressed beyond the hypothetical because Ray Palmer is a terrible liar – used for anything other than noble, world-saving, heroics.

Still, there’s something that makes him think, maybe just maybe. If the cause were justified enough? _Maybe._

The rest of the journey flies by and before he knows it, they’re stepping off the carriage and onto the platform. Naturally, Dr Palmer has a car waiting for him, but ever with impeccable manners, the man stops and offers his hand.

“This is me, then. Again, it was nice to meet you, _whoever you are_ ,” he adds the last bit in a staged whisper and with a wry grin on his face.

Rip’s made a habit of being on guard, always suspicious, and though he’s not really using his birth name, Rip Hunter’s just as much a persona he’s made for himself and one he likes to keep private where possible.

Fairly stupid, he knows, given his so-called day job has him far from fading into the background, but he can never be too careful.

There’s something about Ray Palmer, though.

Something like trust, and fate, and a feeling that the future holds surprises for them both.

He takes the outstretched hand in his and shakes once. “Rip Hunter.”

“Rip? Like Rip Van Winkle?”

“No, like Rip Hunter.”

Dr Palmer grins wide. “Cool.”

It’s as he bids him goodbye, that he feels it.

The prickling of hairs at his nape and the feeling he’s being watched. He turns his head, subtly looking around, though the bustle on the platform and the screech of feedback from the overhead tannoy and the rumble of trains in the distance makes it hard to concentrate.

He doesn’t know why but the sight of a sudden shock of blonde hair and a leather jacket catches his attention.

The woman’s far off in the distance, disappearing with every footstep she takes.

And in a blink, she’s gone.

But the feeling lingers. For a long while after.

 

*

*

*

 


	3. No hot beverages allowed

 

*

 

_Rip Hunter._

The name doesn’t sound real. It feels like a name a starved author battling writer’s block has plucked out of thin air and thought it just unusual, but _plausible_ , enough to work.

It’s a ridiculous name for an otherwise ordinary seeming man.

A quick Google search and mouse click reveals him to be a history professor at Star City College. Recently joined the staff with a special interest in British History (of course), originally hailing from Whitechapel, London. And yes, the reason it sounds so familiar? The place, historically, is most famously known for the Jack the Ripper murders in 1888, as the college website helpfully tells her in cheery prose.

 _Huh_ , she thinks. Maybe that’s where he got it from. The name. Because despite what’s written in front of her, she’s still not convinced that there isn’t something more to the man – especially with a name _like that._ And yet, somehow, it doesn’t raise alarm bells or frighten her. But then, not much does.

She’s _intrigued._

And although that intrigue may just have been born from a need to divert her murderous thoughts away from stabbing Darhk in the jugular and watching him bleed – thoughts that seem to preoccupy her every waking moment – it’s more likely that it has _nothing to do with that at all_. 

After all, _old habits_ etcetera, etcetera.

Sara makes a point of getting on the same train, same carriage, the very next morning. She glances around quickly, and notes two things are exactly as she expected them to be.

All the seats are once again taken.

And Mr Rip Hunter is definitely a man of habit.

He’s in the same seat as before, and a thrill of something – excitement, anticipation, something she can’t really name – buzzes under her skin as she manoeuvres herself into position. She hides behind a stout man with a pot belly, who thankfully seems to have showered this morning. She can just about see Rip Hunter from where she’s standing and can covertly continue to observe him without being caught.

Once again, a newspaper lies abandoned next to him and he distracts himself with watching the city’s changing skyline fly past. There’s a different passenger sitting next to him today. Young, male, handsome. Again, not her type.

He’s chewing on the end of a red pen, now and then stopping to scribble on the papers in front of him, a smirk or frown gracing his lips with whatever it is he’s reading. Sara’s attention is drawn when the man turns to him and shoves one of the papers under his nose. There’s a grin on his face, and an expectant look in his eyes.

Rip Hunter humours him with a nod and a press of his lips which barely passes for a smile.

It registers then. She recognises him from her research on the college’s website. Dr Nathaniel Heywood – another historian. A colleague of his. Clearly, not more than that given the subtle exasperation that flickers across Hunter’s face.

Dr Heywood starts shaking his pen vigorously then – clearly out of ink. The movement jostles his colleague’s arm, and although there’s a subtle clench of his jaw in response, he continues to stare resolutely out the window.

It’s only when Dr Heywood reaches down to pick up his bag from the floor, obviously in search of another red pen to scribble all over some poor idiot’s hard work, that Rip Hunter is drawn out of his daze.

Along with the rest of the carriage.

She doesn’t really see how it happens, but somehow in his rush to get back to his marking, Dr Heywood takes no note of the fact his head is pressing into the passenger standing in the aisle next to his seat. No, he’s too busy rummaging through his leather satchel, to realise he’s pressing against the legs of a stunning woman, at a precarious angle, and who in turn is looking more and more pissed off by the second.

The train is packed as it usually is and there’s nowhere for her move.

The woman has a coffee cup in one hand, and her cell phone in the other. The back of the glossy case has an impressive picture of a tiger’s face, up close and personal, and something tells her that the owner is likely just as fierce.

Sara sees it happening before it actually does. The woman times it just as the train turns a bend to cover it up as an accident, when in actual fact, the hot latté spilling from her coffee cup onto Dr Heywood and his marking is anything but.

He yelps in surprise, takes a moment to breathe in and out before turning to look at the perpetrator. He’s clearly ready to shred into them, but then the damnedest thing happens. His jaw goes slack, and he gapes up at the woman, and Sara can see his tongue battling to form words.

 _So_ , she thinks, _this is what love at first sight looks like, huh?_

She snorts. Out loud.

Not that Dr Heywood notices.

And well, she can’t really blame him. Not when the woman just shrugs her shoulders, doesn’t even offer an apology and simply says, “oops.” The timing could not be more perfect as the train pulls into the station, and she moves to get off without even a backward glance.

It’s a power move, and Sara wonders if she’s not half in love with her herself.

The next scene is straight out of one of those cheesy romcoms that her mother loves and Sara has no time for.

Dr Heywood pretty much leaps out of his seat, grabs at the papers on his desk – sopping wet, stained, and ink running – and lifts the strap of his bag over his head and onto his shoulder and makes a mad dash to follow.

It’s not even his stop.

She turns to look through the window, to see if she can catch a glimpse of the would-be star-crossed lovers, but the automatic doors close with a hiss and the train is once again on the move.

It’s then that Sara remembers who it is that she’s supposed to be observing. The mystery that she’s taken upon herself to solve because a) she misses her day job, and b) as if the lack of a licence will get her to stop – if anything it’s an added incentive, a huge middle finger to Darhk and his corrupt cronies. If there’s a third reason, it’s not something she’s even aware of. At least, not yet.

And so, she turns her head, in search of that familiar brown coat, breath catching in her chest as she does.

Just the same as it did that first day.

Because there he is. Staring back at her. As if he’d known she was there the whole time.

She holds his gaze.

And this time, _he doesn’t look away._

 

*

 

Rip gets the phone call at 5am and in his not quite lucid state thinks he hears Dr Nate Heywood asking what time he catches his morning train to campus. The conversation doesn’t compute, not until two hours later when the cold water from his shower wakes him up just enough so that remnants of their talk come back to him.

Something about his car, and a dodgy ignition and ‘potential fire hazard’ and it being down at the garage for repairs, and never has Rip wanted someone to get their car fixed sooner.

He very nearly misses the 08:13 today, as he stands there on the platform, peering back at the stairs every five seconds for any glimpses of his fellow educator. But then just as the train pulls into the station and beads of sweat start to gather at his nape, does he spot him flying down the steps, satchel bag bouncing against the side of his leg as he makes a run for it.

“Phew,” he breathes out once they’re safely aboard the train and he settles into the seat beside him. There’s the giddy grin of an adrenaline junkie on his lips as he turns to him. “That was close!”

Rip mumbles an “indeed” under his breath and looks away to the window.

“Not much of a talker, are you? Heard other members of the faculty saying the same. Figured it’s just that stiff British upper lip thing you’ve got going on.”

Rip raises a brow at that and hopes the expression on his face is enough to get the message across.

It is.

Well, for the most part.

The rest of the journey is spent with Dr Heywood’s running commentary in his ear on his class’ assignments, which he tries his best to block out. Rip focusses instead on the familiar sights outside the train window as they draw closer to the city centre. It helps. Helps to drown out the background noise and quiet his own thoughts – push the memories aside, and the guilt and grief that always comes with them.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before his concentration is broken for the final time.

Quite suddenly, and unexpectedly, Dr Heywood lets out a rather undignified shriek and abruptly stands.

Swivelling his head around, Rip finds himself looking up at his colleague standing with a large coffee stain on his sky-blue shirt, his students’ papers soaking wet, staring with wide-eyes as if in some sort of trance at the woman who had dumped the beverage all over him in the first place.

All eyes are on them, and it’s turned unnervingly quiet on the carriage. The background noise of the train on the tracks fades away and he can hear the ticking of the second-hand of his own wrist watch in the silence.

A loud snort shatters the moment.

Shatters the stifling silence and awkwardness that holds the moment on a painful knife edge.

He’s thankful for it.

The heads turn away slowly, disinterest creeping back in, and though they weren’t looking at him, Rip feels he can breathe a little easier and fade back to anonymity.

He glances towards his unwitting saviour and freezes still.

 _It’s her_.

The same woman who had caught him stealing that probable arsonist’s pack of cigarettes and had simply smirked back at him as if she _approved._

He can’t look away.

She hasn’t spotted him yet. Her eyes are trained instead on Dr Heywood and the mysterious woman. The derisive snort that had burst from her is soon at odds with the expression on her face. She watches them with a keenness that turns from amusement to a sort of wistfulness as she watches Dr Heywood fly off the train in pursuit of a stranger who likely doesn’t even want the attention.

In his haste, Dr Heywood leaves behind several sheets of paper, but he barely notices himself.

His attention is still held entirely by _her_. He doesn’t know why, can make little sense of it, but something tells him, she’s important.

Or that she _will be_.

And it’s as that thought sinks uncomfortably to the pit of his stomach and grows roots there, that she turns away from the window and looks directly back at him.

This time he doesn’t break his gaze.

It’s a silent challenge, and he has no idea what possesses him to make it.

She doesn’t shy away from it either. Raises a brow instead, her lips curving up into a familiar smirk, and just like that he’s the first to blink.

When the train finally pulls into Star City Central Station, she’s one of the first to get off.

Grabbing at the rest of Dr Heywood’s papers, and stuffing them haphazardly into his own bag, he follows after her. Follows after the back of a blonde head and leather jacket, and she doesn’t look back once. Just continues walking through the ticket barriers and towards the exit leading onto the main street as he weaves his own way through the masses of commuters. When he finally reaches her just as he steps onto the pavement, he taps her on the shoulder before he loses his nerve.

He doesn’t even recognise his own voice as he calls out. “Excuse me?”

The woman turns, and time slows. Confused brown eyes blink back at him, a frown on painted red lips, and her whole posture is that of irritation and suspicion.

It’s not her.

“Oh, I beg your pardon. I’m sorry, Miss, I thought you were –” the rest of his words trail off and the woman shoots him a dirty look and stomps off.

He breathes out, rubs a hand across his face as people continue to barge past him.

He’s gone mad. That’s what’s happened. _Mad._

“You know, you’ll give a girl a complex if you think any blonde woman in a leather jacket is her.”

He huffs out a breath, and it sounds suspiciously like the beginnings of a laugh.

Turning to his left, he finds _her_ standing up against the wall, leg bent at the knee, boot pressing into the bricks, arms folded across her chest and blue eyes laughing at him.

He blushes. Again. Like a damned schoolboy caught doing something monumentally embarrassing and he really wishes he could get a bloody hold of himself right about now.

He clears his throat and just blurts out his next words. “You’ve been watching me.”

_So much for getting a hold of himself._

Her lips curl up into a smirk he’s becoming more and more familiar with, as she twists around to face him, shoulder now pressing into the wall.

“What can I say? Can’t help it. You’re an interesting guy.”

“And how do you figure that,” he starts to ask, moving to the side and taking a step closer, “Miss . . .?”

“Lance. Sara Lance,” she says without missing a beat, stretching out her hand.

He hesitates only a moment, before reaching out and taking it in his. He tests her name on his tongue, repeating her name with a nod. “Miss Lance.”

The skin under his fingertips is unexpectedly rough and calloused. Her grip, however, is warm, strong and unfaltering.

“Well, now it’s only fair I get to know your name.”

He’s struck by the oddest feeling – that somehow, he can trust her, and so he answers.

“Rip. Rip Hunter.”

The smirk on her face softens into a genuine smile and suddenly his palms feel sweaty, and he realises his hand is still holding hers. He moves to pull away, but she only grips tighter.

“See _that_? That right there is how I figure you’re an interesting guy.”

And then she surprises him, one last time. Pulling him in closer, she reaches up onto her tiptoes and whispers in his ear. “Because that is definitely not your real name.”

She pulls back again, winks at him before turning and walking away with a wave.

She leaves him standing on the pavement, mouth gaping open and heart pounding in his chest. He doesn’t know whether to be thrilled or frightened.

Possibly both.

But what he does know with certainty is this:

He’ll be seeing her again.

 

*

*

*

 


	4. Please do not leave baggage unattended

 

*

 

That night, Sara struggles to sleep.

Thoughts propel around her mind, flying in every direction and she struggles to catch hold and rein them in.

She remembers the feel of his skin under her fingertips. Soft, warm and only slightly calloused, probably from years of writing paper after paper. Remembers the way his pulse jumped as she’d run her thumb over his wrist and leaned in to whisper in his ear – confirming her suspicions about him.

She may have been right about him not being who he seemed.

But she’d got one thing _very_ wrong.

At first glance, she’d dismissed him as anything but special. And that really should have been her first clue. When it came to guys, she didn’t fall for the classically good-looking, pretty-boy types. And though she was right that Rip Hunter didn’t fall into that category – up close, there was something disarming about him. The eyes. It was his eyes. Green, but the deceptive kind. The kind that could make you believe they were any colour you wanted them to be. And after staring back at him, holding his commend-worthy gaze, she realised that he was the kind of dangerous handsome that made her pulse race and she should know better than to do something about it.

And yet she couldn’t help herself.

Not when the intrigue seemed mutual.

After all, he’d been the one chasing after her. All she had to do was lie in wait.

And there he’d been.

The short conversation that followed has since played itself over and over in her mind.

And it’s the resultant restless, sleepless night that makes the decision for her. It’s ridiculous – the idea – but it takes hold of her and won’t let go.

It means that she has to leave earlier, go out of her way to get on at the very first stop on the route their daily morning train takes. She doesn’t know exactly where he gets on, so it’s a gamble but she thinks it’ll be worth it to see the look on his face.

She settles into his usual window seat – rear-facing – not something she’d ordinarily choose for herself and hopes that no one takes the seat in front of her before he boards. Just as an added deterrent she drops her bag – an accessory she normally doesn’t even bother with, but possibly has a use today (maybe) – onto the seat beside her, stretches out her feet under the small table and glowers at anyone that comes near her.

She doesn’t have to wait very long for him.

He gets on at the very next stop.

And thankfully, he’s alone.

Sara watches as he pulls a little tighter on the strap of his rucksack, shoulder hunched just a fraction as if his load weighs more than it ought to. His jawline is still covered in stubble, and there are dark circles under his eyes and she thinks maybe she isn’t the only one suffering from a lack of sleep.

He walks up the aisle, feet carrying him to his already occupied seat.

She looks away, feigning ignorance.

There’s a subtle inhale of breath and a stutter in his footsteps when he spots her. But then his surprise at seeing her there doesn’t last nearly as long as she’d hoped it would. He simply slides into the opposite seat and stares her down.

Her skin burns with the heat of his gaze, and she wilts with it.

Tilting her head back against the seat, she lets her eyes flicker in his direction and hold steadfast.

It’s the twitch of a smile on his lips that throws her off. A smile that suggests he’s somehow figured her out.

“Miss Lance,” he says.

“Mr Hunter,” she bats back, just as smoothly.

He doesn’t even question it.

What she’s doing here. In his seat.

Apparently, he already knows. And whilst ordinarily she might find it presumptuous and irritating, there’s something about it that pulls a smile from her own lips.

“You know, Miss Lance, some would consider this stalking.”

“Stalking? No,” she laughs, “this is just a coincidence. Stalking would be googling your name and typing it into Facebook just to see what you can find.”

He raises a brow. “Not a lot I imagine.”

“Sadly no. Should have figured – you don’t seem the social media type.”

“Lucky guess.”

“No, not lucky. Just good at what I do.”

“Which is what exactly?”

And it’s the way he asks, leaning back in his seat, fingers curled around his biceps as he crosses his arms and looks back at her intently, that makes her think he already knows _exactly._

“Seems to me you already know.”

He doesn’t deny it. Says instead, “must have been quite satisfying punching Damien Darhk in the face. Although, I imagine your sister didn’t take too kindly to it.”

“That supposed to impress me?” she teases, before continuing with a shrug. “That bastard getting his is common knowledge, and Laurel is damn good at what she does. The case has been in all the newspapers.”

He shakes his head, swallows, and looks away. Sara’s pretty good at reading people and picking up clues – in her usual line of work, it’s something of a requirement. She realises, despite appearances, Rip Hunter is not used to being this forward. And it’s not just his delicate British sensibilities that she’s tilting off-balance, there’s something else unnerving him and it only makes her want to dig deeper.

He clears his throat. “Yes, I guess I didn’t really have to look too far. Although, there is one mystery I’m struggling to solve . . .”

She holds his gaze, angles her head, wordlessly prompting him to continue.

He sits up straighter and leans forward across the table. “How does a woman who has a lawyer for a sister, and a police captain as a father, end up being a PI?”

“A healthy hatred for bureaucracy.”

He breathes out, and with the tilt of his lips into a smile, the rush of air almost sounds like a laugh and she feels her stomach clench with it.

“You do realise,” she starts, leaning in herself, “given what I do, I will figure out your story _Rip Hunter_ , so you could save me the time and just tell me.”

“And why exactly do you want to know my story so badly?”

She shrugs. “Boredom. Community service is not especially stimulating.” She doesn’t tell him the real reason. The real reason being she doesn’t really know herself, just what it is about this man that’s pulled her in and won’t let go. “Well, _that_ , and I miss my job.”

She doesn’t know why she tells him that last part. Finds herself looking away and leaning back in her seat.

He surprises her with his response. Doesn’t bother with the fake empathy, although something tells her that from him, it wouldn’t have been, and instead asks a question not many would be brave enough to.

“Why did you do it?”

He doesn’t clarify his meaning, but she knows just what he’s asking. “He deserved it.”

He shakes his head. “No, I know about the rumours – the trafficking, drugs, people; the supposed people in power on his payroll; and I know your sister has been working on the case to bring him down, but I doubt she would have asked you to get involved on her behalf. Conflict of interest. So, my question is _why?_ ”

Sara knows where he’s going with this. Because yes, it’s a whole lot more personal than what the stories would have people believe. But it’s not something she’s going to get into right now. Not when she realises with a disbelieving shake of her head and a trace of a smile that he’s somehow managed to deflect the conversation from off himself.

She holds his gaze steady. “You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

There’s a flicker of something, maybe a smile, as he inclines his head and nods. “Touché.”

She taps her fingers on the table, the metal of her ring hitting the cheap plastic in a steady rhythm as she continues to watch him. He shifts ever so slightly in his seat, and the thought comes to her just like that. She says it before she can think too hard about it.

“You want to know something, Rip Hunter? I think you and I are gonna be great friends.”

The asshole laughs.

 

*

 

Sara Lance.

He has a name to put to the face now. A familiar name, and it’s that persistent itch at the back of his mind which persuades him to log onto his computer that night and type it into the search bar.

A wave of guilt builds in his gut as he waits for the webpage to load before finally receding as numerous articles pop up. After all, she’s not exactly trying to hide away.

He clicks on the first one.

Sara Lance. Former Private Investigator. Currently suspended from working after having her licence revoked, and now serving twelve months of community service for physically assaulting Damien Darhk. A well-known business man and philanthropist currently battling allegations of fraud, and racketeering, which he vehemently denies. The prosecution leading the case? Well, that would be Sara’s sister – Laurel Lance, Assistant District Attorney. Both the only daughters of Captain Quentin Lance of the Star City Police Department and Dinah Lance, a professor of Greek and medieval history at Central City University.

Rip sits back in his chair and scrolls through the various articles – some heavily imply Sara Lance to be a deranged psychopath, others say she was in cahoots with her sister, trying to beat a confession out of the man and intimidate him. Others suggest, it was _jealousy_ , all the attention Laurel was getting for her high-profile case which resulted in the younger Lance sister acting out. Rip barely knows her, has only spoken a few words to her earlier that morning for the first time, and even he knows all the stories are absolute bollocks. There’s certainly more to it. More to Miss Lance. And there is one thing all the news outlets seem to agree upon – Sara Lance had been a damn good PI. Her most high-profile case being that of solving the mysterious disappearance of Oliver Queen, heir to Queen Industries, who had at one point been believed to be lost at sea.

Her skill and expertise should have sent him running for the hills, packing his bags, and fleeing. He wouldn’t be surprised if she did manage to uncover his secrets, but once again, he’s struck by the oddest feeling that he can trust her.

That somehow, her story and his, from here on out, would be intricately linked.

It, therefore, should not have come as a surprise to find her sitting in his train seat the following morning.

And yet, his footsteps falter and his pulse jumps as he spots her. Looking away and out the window, he knows she knows he’s there and so he simply slides into the seat opposite her and waits for her to acknowledge his gaze.

She does.

“Miss Lance,” he says, and rather likes the way her name feels on his tongue.

“Mr Hunter,” she replies in kind, and he doesn’t even realise it, but he’s smiling.

And as the conversation leaps off from there, he finds himself relaxing in a way he hasn’t done for a long time. Even though she digs, just like he knew she would, he doesn’t feel the need to run away. He even thinks, that maybe, one day, he may just tell her the whole story. If, of course, she doesn’t figure it out for herself first.

“You want to know something, Rip Hunter?” she says, “I think you and I are gonna be great friends.”

He laughs, because he thinks she’s right. And for once, the idea doesn’t scare him.

She narrows her eyes back at him in mock offence, and he lets his lips curl into a grin as he puts out his hand in a gesture to placate, “I’m sorry.”

She harrumphs, leaning back in her seat.

He thinks she would have said more then, but her mobile rings and she’s reaching into her leather jacket to retrieve it.

“Jax!” she says, with a genuine smile, that brightens her face, and it’s then that he notices the hundreds of freckles smattered across the bridge of her nose. “What’s up?”

He continues to watch her, freely, now that she’s occupied by her phone call. Watches the various reactions that flit across her face in response to whatever’s being said on the other side.

“Yeah, I’m on the train.”

Silence as she listens. And then, “Shut your mouth Jackson. I don’t know why I tell you anything.”

He raises his brow at the faintest tinge of pink that suffuses the skin of her cheeks and he wonders just what her friend? boyfriend? is saying.

The embarrassment lasts only a few seconds as her expression changes into one a little more serious and Rip finds himself sitting a fraction more upright.

“It’s fine, Jax. I’ll head back . . . no, it’s not a problem . . . yeah, well, they’ll just have to survive a day without me . . . So? So, they’ll extend my sentence to three hundred and sixty-six days. Wow. I’m terrified . . . whatever . . . I’ll see you soon.”

“Your boyfriend okay?”

He wants to mentally slap himself the second the words fly out of his mouth, especially when she raises a brow and for a moment the stress drains away to leave behind a smirk.

“I’m single, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He splutters. “That’s not- that’s not what I meant, I . . .”

She laughs. “Relax, Jax is a friend, and he needs a little help with a customer back at his workshop.”

Rip frowns. “What kind of help?”

She doesn’t answer. Simply smiles back enigmatically, timing it just as the train rolls to a stop at the next station and leaves without another word.

It’s only after she’s off the train, and another passenger who’s boarded approaches him, and asks him if the seats in front of him are taken, does he realise she’s left behind her bag.

There’s a split second when he thinks maybe she did it on purpose, but he dismisses the thought, waving it away as ridiculous.

“Oh no, sorry,” he says, reaching over to grab hold of the rucksack and _bloody hell_ , he thinks, _it’s heavy_. He wonders if she’s packed rocks in there.

He carries it with him, the whole day, and it’s only when he gets home late that evening and dumps it on his small coffee table that he finally unzips it to look at just what he’s been lugging around.

He’d spent the whole day debating whether to do it. It’s an invasion of privacy – in a way that’s completely different to scouring over articles that are public knowledge. But he justifies it to himself, arguing maybe there’s something important in there, something she’ll need and . . .

“Oh sod it!” he breathes out, unzipping it before he changes his mind.

And then he stops. And stares.

Rocks.

There are _actual_ rocks in the bag.

Oh! And that’s not all.

There’s a note.

 

_Made you look :-P_

And on the reverse? There’s an address. He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head, cheeks turning unacceptably warm. He turns the card over and over in his hand, pockets it before he changes his mind and tries not to think about it, _or her,_ for the rest of the night.

 

*

*

*

 


	5. Please offer your seat to those less able to stand

*

 

“So, you didn’t show up last night. Gotta say, I’m a little disappointed.”

He doesn’t even blink as he slides into the seat opposite her and settles back. There’s no stutter in his footsteps, no hesitation. He just looks back at her as if he’d been expecting her.

She’s taken his seat once more. And yes, she had to get up earlier than usual to beat him to it, but somehow, she really doesn’t mind.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She grins, throws him a pointed look that says she sees right through him. The shifting eye-contact being the obvious giveaway and acknowledgement of guilt.

He sighs. “How are you so sure I looked?”

She doesn’t reply, just smiles a little wider.

“I think you may have got the wrong impression.”

“And what impression would that be?” she asks oh-so innocently.

Rip shifts uncomfortably then, his cheeks darkening with colour and this is the most fun she’s had since she punched Darhk in the face and nearly knocked out his teeth.

“That I’m . . .” he pauses, and gesticulates with his hand, “you know? Interested. And I’m not. And it’s not because you’re not interesting, or attractive, or-”

He’s flailing in the water, drowning, being pulled under with the tide.

There’s a subtle wobble to her smirk at his effusive denial but Rip’s too flustered to notice.

“You’re smiling,” he says instead with narrowed eyes.

“Oh relax!” she swallows down the ridiculous disappointment, waving it away. “It’s fine. I’m only teasing. I wouldn’t find you so charming if you weren’t so _British_ about all of this.” He raises his brow at that, but Sara continues on, finishing her sentence before she loses her nerve, “but I figured that after what happened with your wife . . .”

And just like that, all the colour drains from his face. “What do you know?”

The levity of the moment is all but shattered. It’s the equivalent of her pulling on the emergency stop and the train coming to a sudden, screeching stop, and they’ve barely left the station. She thinks they’re both going to be suffering from the whiplash, and although she feels guilty, she isn’t one to back down. “I told you. I’m good at what I do.”

“Miss Lance?”

There’s no arguing with that tone, and it takes her by surprise. “Nothing. I know nothing. It was a stab in the dark, but what do you know? I was right.”

He watches her steadily for a moment, quite obviously trying to discern the honesty behind her words. Once he’s satisfied, he leans back. “That was rather underhanded, Miss Lance.”

“And you were expecting better from me, were you?”

“No. Not really.” But he says it with a twitch of his lips, and his fingers have uncurled and there’s colour back in his knuckles, and so it only lands a soft blow – crumbling like powdered snow, melting beneath her feet.

She’d been given enough to work with from their encounter yesterday; to come up with a few possibilities. One being the fact he’d been married and is no longer. The absence of a wedding band told her as much, but the pale, indented ring of skin on his finger had suggested that it was a recent development, or that perhaps, he’d only just removed it. But she couldn’t glean any more than that, though the unease that had stirred in her gut told her it wasn’t a happy story.

Sitting here now, watching the man trying to decide whether to slip back behind his mask, she knows she’d been right. No one runs that fast, that far, across an entire ocean, to fade into the background without some spectre snapping at their heels.

There’s an opening here. An opening to find out his real story, not the one she ran her eyes over multiple times on the Star City College faculty webpage. And yet, she hesitates.

He hasn’t looked away, green eyes searching for something and it’s only with the slow breath that leaves his lips that he speaks again.

“My wife passed a long time ago. Shortly after Jonas was born.”

Sometimes Sara really hates her curiosity; her inability to know when enough is enough, to stop before the tip of her shovel hits the clang of rusty old metal, opening up hidden boxes that should have stayed just that. Hidden.

She thinks this is one of those times, but she can’t get her brain and her mouth to cooperate. To say, _hey, it’s okay, you don’t need to tell me_.

“A pulmonary embolism, they said. A blood clot in her lungs. Happened too quickly for anyone to do anything about it.”

The words, “I’m sorry,” are on her lips but they sound too trite. Meaningless.

She clears her throat from the lump that seems to have settled there. “Jonas? Your son?”

“He was.”

Two words. Two words and it’s enough for the world outside those train windows to disappear around her. When she’d wanted to unearth his secrets, this is the last thing she’d been expecting, and she’s not sure she wants to, or deserves to, hear the rest. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to . . . I never should have-”

But it’s like he doesn’t hear her, eyes glazed over, stuck in a torturous memory and he can’t quite stop. “The authorities said it was an accident, faulty electrical wiring, but my gut told me there had to be more to it.”

“What do you mean?”

“That entire street of flats was bought and re-developed within the space of three months. Nothing happens that fast without years of pre-planning, by-passing council hoops to get approval, and obscenely deep pockets.”

“You think it was pre-meditated arson.”

“I know it was. Took me four years, but I figured it out.”

“Figured what out?”

“Who murdered my son.”

Sara sees it now. The fury burning in his eyes, the kind of fury that brings him alive, the kind of fury that should have her scared and running, but it’s the kind of fury she knows well. The kind that makes her want to wrap her hands around Darhk’s neck and squeeze, letting go only when there’s nothing left.

And that’s when she knows, just what it was that had drawn her to him in the first place.

“What did you do, Rip?” she asks on a tremble of a breath.

“Not enough.”

She stares back at him. Waits.

“He’s still alive.”

Oh, she thinks. _Oh._

For once in her life, Sara is speechless.

But it’s not shock or fear. It’s the startling feeling of kinship. Something, up until now, she’s not felt with anyone. Not even her own family understands the depth of her rage. But now, finally, there’s someone who understands the vengeance-driven blood-lust that runs through her veins. It’s something she battles with daily, because although she knows it’s wrong, there’s a part of her that thinks it couldn’t be any more _right_.

And the man sitting in front of her, she knows, understands that only too well.

Her silent response extends longer, and she realises then that she really should say something because she can see it on his face, as his eyes clear, and understanding dawns. It’s the dreaded fall back to reality she’s witnessing – the bumpy, shock landing – as he takes her silence to mean the only realistic thing it can.

That she’s horrified by his admission. Disgusted. Frightened.

He shakes his head, runs a tremulous hand across his face. “I’m sorry. I said too much. I don’t know why . . . I’m sorry. Excuse me.” And then he’s standing up, grabbing at his bag and turning to leave. And there’s no one else sitting beside him yet, making it easy for him to walk (run) away.

She reaches out instinctively; hand colliding with his wrist and he flinches with the contact. Sara resists her own urge to let go – holds on a little tighter instead until he looks down to meet her gaze.

There are so many things that swim in that one look – despair, self-hatred, mortification, resignation . . .

And it hurts in a way she knows well

“Don’t,” she says then, throat dry, voice a cracked whisper. _“Don’t go.”_

 

*

 

It’s an out of body experience for him.

As if it’s not him who’s sitting here spilling up the horror of the war that’s being fought in the deep, dark trenches of his mind to a virtual stranger. As if it isn’t him who’s taking that familiar blade to his own heart and carving a little deeper over those same old scars that won’t heal and just keep bleeding.

And yet now that he’s opened his mouth, he can’t quite get it to shut. The words flow and rush until he’s all but told her everything – well, enough – and his first feeling is relief. It’s that clichéd weight sitting on his chest he’s managed to push off, but it’s only in the ensuing silence, and with _that_ look on her face, that the horror dawns.

He doesn’t even know what he says, mumbles an apology as his flight responses take hold, and he just wants to run.

But then she’s reaching out. The surprise warmth of her palm hitting his skin as she says, _“Don’t go.”_

He braves a look back at her; meets her gaze, and he had it all wrong.

It’s not disgust. Or horror. Or fear.

It’s an understanding. Acceptance. And he swallows it down – heart beat steadying under the press of her fingers on his wrist.

“Her name was Sin,” she starts to say softly. “She was a good kid under it all. I think she saw me as something of a big sister, god knows why.” She breathes out those words, incredulous, but Rip can see how much it meant to her.

He sits back down, but she doesn’t let go of his wrist. Holds it there across the table, and it’s then that he realises that Sara Lance is just as broken as he is.

He doesn’t interrupt her, just lets her tell her story. It’s only fair. She listened to his. Every gruesome part.

“She was a street kid, the usual story – broken home, not a lot of money, in with the wrong crowds – but I don’t know, I saw something in her. Maybe a little bit of me, screaming to be heard. I helped her get clean.”

It’s not the end of the story. He’s learnt happy endings only ever existed in Jonas’ bedtime stories. They’re just as much a fantasy as the books that used to line his shelves. After all, they’re all ash and dust now.

“What happened?” he asks, voice a murmur.

“She agreed to be a witness for Laurel’s case against Darhk. She knew things about his drug trade. Credible things. Things that would have nailed the bastard down to multiple life sentences . . .”

The rest of her sentence disappears on the tip of her tongue, falling into the chasm of silence between them with only the sound of the train speeding along its tracks to fill it and the rest of his imagination.

She doesn’t need to say, and he doesn’t need to hear the rest of it.

“They reported it as just another drugged up teen OD’ing. A dime a dozen. Nothing to see here. Move right along.” She virtually spits out those last words, and Rip can feel the anger and heartache. And it’s all just so unfair. He leans forward, his other hand finding the one still clutching his wrist, and squeezes. He hopes it says what he can’t. What there are no words for.

Sara’s eyes drop to their joined hands, before releasing a long and steady breath. She gently tugs away her hand, extricating it from his and Rip doesn’t understand the sudden aching hollowness in his chest. He manages to school his face into a neutral expression as he pulls back and settles into his seat again.

“It wasn’t just that though. It’s everything. Everything that son-of-a-bitch has done to pollute this city, and he just gets away with it. And worse, people are out there applauding, like he’s some goddamn saint because he donated, what? Not even _one percent_ of his blood money to a freakin’ children’s hospice!”

At her raised voice, a few heads turn in their direction. Sara just turns right back to one such woman, with a particularly haughty look on her face, and snaps a loud, _“What?!”_

The woman swivels her head back, cheeks reddening as she returns to reading her book.

It’s only once she’s settled back in her seat that Rip speaks – the words low and remarkably steady with a certain conviction he’s not felt in a long time. “Do you know something, Sara? There’s not a lot I believe in. Not anymore. But I do believe one thing: Darhk will get his comeuppance, maybe not next week, this month or even this year, but he will. And when he does? He’ll rue the day he ever crossed paths with a Lance.”

There’s a glimpse of a smile on her lips, the sharp edges soften once more, and it soothes the ache in his chest from moments ago.

The conversation comes to an end as they pull in at the next station. As more passengers climb on than leave, the empty seats beside them are taken and they fall into a companionable silence. He’s happy to use the filling carriage as an excuse for it; the truth being he’s not sure how to continue a conversation from the secrets they’ve spilled. He’d had a feeling from the moment he’d met her that she’d get the truth from him eventually, he just hadn’t expected it to happen this soon.

As his mind wanders, his gaze does too and it’s then that he notices the older gentleman in glasses, struggling to balance with a briefcase in one hand and files in another. Rip looks around, to see if anyone else has noticed to stand up and offer their seat. Being seated in the window seat makes it a little trickier but if no one else will, he really doesn’t mind.

And, of course, no one does. Everyone else just turns a blind eye, pretends to be asleep or too engrossed in their morning commute rituals and forgets common decency.

He stands, and he spots Sara’s confused glance at the sudden movement but doesn’t look back at her.

“Excuse me, Sir?” he calls out. “Would you like to sit?”

The man does a double take, as if Rip couldn’t possibly be talking to him. And when he finally realises that yes, he was indeed talking to him, the unexpected happens.

The older man turns slightly pink-cheeked, in anger, he quickly grasps, as he splutters indignantly, “I am quite capable of standing, thank you very much!”

Dumbfounded, Rip drops back into his seat. He chances a glance at Sara, to find her grinning back at him with a shake of her head. “Didn’t peg you for the ageist type.”

“I’m not- I didn’t mean- that wasn’t . . .” he splutters, despite knowing she’s only teasing him.

“Just be careful, don’t go asking that lady over there to take your seat. Pretty sure she’s not pregnant, and you’ll just get her handbag in your face. Don’t say I never warned you.”

He can’t help it, knows it’s a trap, and yet he follows her gaze around to the woman in question. He finds a tall, skinny lady, decked out in tight-fitting gym wear, very clearly not with child, and shakes his head with a huff.

He spins back to face her. Her eyes are sparkling with mischief, and it chases away the ghost of the heartbroken, angry, vengeful woman who had been sitting in front of him minutes ago. He doesn’t know what it says about him that he finds both equally as alluring.

He shakes his head at her. “You, Miss Lance, are terrible.”

It’s as the words fly out of his mouth that he realises just how they must sound after their conversation.

But Sara, thankfully, doesn’t seem to mind. She simply shrugs. “I try.”

He breathes out, let’s his own lips twitch in response to her grin. “I’m sure you do.”

“But you like me anyway.”

And though he doesn’t say it, he thinks the smile on his face is answer enough.

 

*

*

*

 


	6. Warning! $100 fine if found travelling without a valid ticket

 

*

 

They fall into a routine.

Well, Sara does.

The extra half hour added to her journey disappears to insignificance. She hardly notices it any more. She still won’t admit it, but she _looks forward_ to her morning commutes now. The scowl that usually sits firmly plastered on her face every day as she stands on the platform still has its place in warding away the obnoxious suits who can’t seem to comprehend the meaning of personal space, but it’s definitely not a permanent fixture any more.

It’s noticeable enough that Jax has teased her about it. More than once.

“You know, I think you might have better luck scaring people off with that goofy grin of yours than that scary glaring thing you’ve been doing for the past decade.”

She’d rolled her eyes at that. “Ha. Hilarious.”

“No, seriously?” he’d asked, sliding himself out from under the car he’d been working on. “What gives?”

“Nothing.”

“Zee?” he’d then turned around, dragging a disinterested Zari – Sara’s housemate and their mutual, self-professed hacktivist friend – into their conversation. She’d been busy clacking away at her keyboard at the time. “What do you reckon?”

“Hmm? Oh. That’s easy. Sara’s in love.”

Of course, the only sane reaction to that had been to scoff loudly and point out the absurdity of the idea. “Yeah, apparently with idiots. I love you guys, but I think the exhaust fumes have gone to your heads.”

Jax had given her that knowing “uh huh” with a grin and a waggle of his eyebrows.

She’d barely resisted throwing his spanner at his head.

The traitor that resides in her brain, the one without a lease and who really needs to move out already, suggests there might be something to it. She ignores it all the same and tries not to think about the reasons behind that same nervous thrum under her skin every time the train rolls into his station. Or how her mouth aches from smiling once she’s spotted him, trudging up the aisle, same rucksack hanging off his one shoulder. He always stops and sighs, but there’s no sting, not when he shoots her that same expression every morning – the tiniest glimpse of a smile that’s more smirk than grin.

He’s taken to greeting her with a pointed, “Miss Lance.”

She always replies in kind. “Mr Hunter.”

Conversation from there takes new and unexpected turns each and every time. Following that morning of soul-baring confessions, they’ve made almost an unspoken agreement to steer clear of _that_ particular topic, and so Sara doesn’t bring up his identity again – a silent promise that she’ll stop digging. That she’s drawn the line and won’t dare cross it. Not until he’s ready to extend a hand and pull her over.

It’s a blank page, a fresh start, and she can appreciate that. The idea of moving on, being better.

And whoever he may have been? It doesn’t matter. He’s Rip Hunter now.

And it’s Rip Hunter that she’s gotten to know over these last few weeks. The man who blushes pink every time she so much as throws one suggestive line in his direction and remains stubbornly immune to her flirtatious overtures. The man who is a self-confessed fraud of a history teacher, a terrible liar, and yet had somehow fooled both airport security and Star City college recruitment into believing he’s exactly who he says he is. When he tells her about how he thinks his students are onto him, but thinks they’re just letting him ‘bungle his way through’ because it’s _fun for them_ , he shakes his head and his lips twitch in that way that makes her think his smiles are locked away. It makes her want to be the one who finds the key that fits.  

It’s Rip Hunter that intrigues her, and she finds herself wanting to know more. As much as she possibly can. Very few people in her life have ever made her feel that way. Maybe it comes as a pitfall of her job – what she’s learnt and seen of people over the last several years are only ever the deepest, darkest pits of humanity. And though she may be able to delete what she captures from behind her camera lens, they remain indelible in her mind.

The people she lets in though? Those special, far and few between, miracles? She thinks she’d scorch the earth in her trail for justice if they were ever wronged. It means something, she knows, that she feels that same itch under her skin to help fight Rip’s battles too.

She doesn’t realise how much of her time those thoughts occupy her mind.

Or how obvious she’s making it without having said very much at all.

“That’s it,” Jax says, one evening, leaning forwards and dumping his beer bottle down on her tiny coffee table. “You’ve not heard a single word I’ve said all night. You’re not even watching the movie. And you’ve got that sad, angry look on your face again. That is not the point of movie night!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Zari snorts from her seat in the opposite armchair, bowl of popcorn cradled to her chest as she chews on another mouthful.

Sara glares in her direction and then back at Jax. “I really don’t.”

“Yeah, right,” he shakes his head, and then he’s sitting up straighter, as if he’s made a very sudden decision. “That’s it. I gotta meet this dude.”

“What?” She feels the panic build in her stomach. “No!”

Jax ignores her and turns to Zari. “You in?”

She shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”

“Zee!” Sara snaps.

But she just waves her hand, almost shooing her as she turns back to the television screen and refocuses her attention on the movie.

“I fucking hate the both of you,” she mutters under her breath.

Jax just grins. “We’ll be on our best behaviour. I promise.”

She shakes her head, grabs her drink and takes a big, long gulp and doesn’t speak another word about it.

Sara hopes they forget about it by the morning, but as luck would have it, neither of them do and they take to following her to the station like blood-hounds. (She even tries and fails to shake them, and she used to be so good at getting away inconspicuously too. _Dammit,_ she’s getting rusty and it just pisses her off more.) When Jax finds her on the platform after a last-ditch attempt to escape them and consolingly pats her on the shoulder, she resists the urge to break his wrist.

The anxiety doesn’t let up.

And when the train rolls to a stop at his station, she resists the urge to stand up and run.

She blatantly ignores Jax’s gaze on her and waits for Rip to make his appearance.

It would be kind of comical, she thinks (if she weren’t so damn on edge), the way he double takes at the sight of Zari sitting in his seat across from her. Sara’s pretty sure the words, “excuse me, but you’re in my seat” were right there on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down at Zari’s raised eyebrows and the smirk on her lips.

“Rip, meet my friends, Zari and Jax. Zari, Jax, Rip Hunter.”

He recovers nicely, slipping into the seat beside her, and extends his hand.

They shake it in turn. First Zari, then Jax.

“So, you’re the strange, sad, British dude with the pretty eyes, huh?”

Sara’s cheeks burn as she glowers at Jax – her lips mouthing the words _I’m gonna kill you, Jackson._ Not that he’s looking at her, he’s grinning back at Rip and she can’t even bear to look at him and see what horror-stricken expression resides on his face right now.

Rip clears his throat, shifts in his seat, sleeve of his jacket brushing against her as he does. She never realised until now just how small these seats are.

“I, uh, suppose I must be. Unless, of course, Miss Lance has other . . . British gentlemen . . . _friends_ . . .” he drifts off and this time she does sneak a glance. She can see him wince as the words fall from his lips, and though her lips curl into a grin in glee at his stumbling, there’s a flutter of something else. Because _friends._ He’d said _friends_.

“Oh I do. So many,” she retorts drily. He meets her gaze, green eyes glinting in amusement and it seems he’s learning to read her perfectly.

Zari, who sits across from her, widens her eyes at the exchange, looking between the two of them before raising her brow.

Sara does her best to ignore it.

“Well, it’s good to finally meet you, Rip Hunter. We’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Likewise.”

“Really?” Zari chips in. “Like what?”

“Like you, Miss Tomaz, are pretty handy with a computer. Apparently, you’ve never met a firewall you can’t break through. And I must say, I’m curious to know, in your endeavours, just what you’ve managed to find out about me?”

And all of a sudden Sara is sitting up straighter, her heart starting up again with the pounding as the conversation takes a turn she hadn’t been expecting. She hadn’t breathed a word of Rip’s story to either of them – it wasn’t hers to tell. Though his words are spoken with a certain air of calm, she can feel him tensing up beside her as he waits.

Clearly, Zari hadn’t been expecting Rip to get right into it either. She glances at Sara, before holding Jax’s gaze. He nods – just the slightest tilt of his head, and that’s how she _knows._

Knows her friends couldn’t leave well enough alone and had done their own digging. She should have anticipated it and she’s mad at herself for not realising sooner.

“Guys? Tell me you didn’t?!”

It’s Jax who answers, but it’s Rip he’s talking to. “I’m sorry about your wife and son, man. That’s brutal.”

“Goddammit Jax!”

She’s pissed off, and this is exactly what she’d been afraid of. There’s an apology on her lips, because he deserves that much, but then Rip’s reaching out. A hand dropping on her arm and keeping her there, his attention still on the traitors sitting in front of her.

“Look,” Jax continues, “we just wanted to make sure you weren’t some creep, alright? Sara means a lot to us.”

“That’s quite alright, Mr Jackson. I understand. Although, I believe Miss Lance can very well handle herself.”

“That she can,” Zari says.

“I’m still sitting here, you assholes.”

But apparently no one's paying any attention to her as Zari carries right on. “You know, I’ve been thinking about it. About what happened to your family. And you know, if you ever wanted to go after Savage, I know a few people who could help.”

Rip breathes out. “Why?”

“Because I know how it feels. And there’s nothing I can do for my brother – believe me, I’ve tried – but maybe we can help get justice for your son.”

Sara’s amazed at the ease with which Zari mentions her brother. It’s not something she talks about, _ever_ , and there must be something in Rip’s tragic story that struck a chord with her if she’s willing to help him get his closure. She’s offered to help out with Darhk, they both have, but after her stunt and its consequences on Laurel’s case, she’d had to say “thanks, but no thanks.” Although the desire to change her mind is something she struggles with daily.

She watches as Rip struggles with the same offer she’d battled, swallowing hard as he looks away and at her. She can see the whole snowstorm of emotion, whirling around in a blizzard, and she wants to apologise so badly. Because they were doing so well staying away from this subject, but then maybe this is who they are, and they can’t move forward until they’ve laid the shrivelled husks of their pasts to rest.

“Thank you, but maybe another day.”

Zari shrugs. “Sure. Like I said to Sara, offers always there.”

“Sooo,” Jax interrupts, changing the subject not so masterfully, “what do you think of our Star City? You’ve been here a couple of months now, right?”

And as Rip sits back, shoulders dropping and brushing against her side as he does, warm and present. As the tension slowly starts to drain away as he answers, Sara shoots her friend a grateful smile.

But the pounding in her chest?

It doesn’t let up.

Not with his hand still holding her arm, the warmth of his fingers burning their way through the layers and imprinting her skin, and worst of all?

She thinks he has no idea.

 

*

 

Rip loses track of time.

He’s not sure how long it’s been since Sara Lance turned her private eye on him – her knack for discovering a good story and unearthing it, leading them to cross paths. Except, somehow, against all odds, it’s turned into more than ships passing each other in the night; they’ve somehow become _more_. Just _what_ exactly, he tries not to think about. In any case, how much can it really mean – the cynical, wounded soul in him asks – if it only ever exists there between two train seats?

But then the hands reaching up, scraping at the Earth’s surface, the parting lips gasping for air, tell him that something has most definitely changed.

Ever since he lost Miranda all those years ago, he’s been a closed book. Losing Jonas only bound those pages together tighter, and yet here was this brash American blonde – brilliant, smart as a whip, funny, _a little frightening and intimidating_ – who so easily flipped through his pages and read him effortlessly.

He’s been eaten up by anger and bitterness at the world for so long, he never entertained the thought there could be more to life after. It’s a scary thought that maybe, _now_ , there could be. And so, like with every other terrifying notion, he pushes it to the back of his mind, and tries his best to simply sit back and enjoy the conversations and the company. Tries to get on with his life, which means studying up on nineteenth century British history and politics, so his students finally sit up and pay attention and he feels less like a fraud, day by day. But best of all, he starts to _like it._

He only ever meets Sara on the 08:13 train to Star City Central Station every morning, and the card with her address on it? It remains there, in his pocket, burning a hole. Sara doesn’t ask him again. After all, the offer was there, and he’d turned her down, and so he knows she won’t be the one to ask again.

When he gets onto the train that morning, gloveless fingers freezing, tips of his toes numb despite the heavy knit socks and boots, he’s certainly not prepared for the additional pairs of eyes that stare back at him.

He recognises them straightaway. Sara had done a perfect job of describing her closest friends and he’s a little too stunned to respond. The gut instinct words – “you’re sitting in my seat” – barely restrained through sheer strength of will.

He’s prepared for a third-degree interrogation from the glint in their eyes as well as Sara’s discomfort, bristling as she is beside him. And from the way Miss Tomaz peers at him, assessing, _understanding_ , something tells him _they know_ , and so he surprises himself by just getting straight to the point.

He can understand _why._ He can also understand Sara’s aggravation and so he doesn’t think twice as he reaches out and steadies her; reassuring her that he’s not angry, and his trust in her is not broken.

Zari’s offer to help him get ‘closure’ for Vandal Savage is unexpected, but there’s no doubting the veracity of it. He knows only what little Sara’s revealed about the fate of her brother and he wonders at how he could possibly have so much in common with strangers. And what are the chances his mad dash across the Atlantic would lead him straight to them?

He’s already walked the path of revenge – and look where it got him? Not any better off than before, and worse still, Vandal Savage has turned into a sympathetic figure – an innocent businessman, attacked by a deranged, dangerous lunatic for no apparent reason. He’s not ready to walk it again, not sure he ever will be, and so it’s not a surprise he turns down the offer. But as the conversation moves on – to far safer, more pedestrian, topics – his mind can’t seem to detach itself from the fact Sara had also turned down Zari’s offer. And that it may not be right for him, right now, _but for her_? It may just be. Because as he’s got to know Sara, he’s also learnt more about Darhk, and it’s been quite the constant source of fuel for the fire that burns in him. And it’s getting harder and harder to ignore.

The train rolls into the last stop before he even knows it. And it’s as Jax, then Zari, edge out from their seats and join the squash of commuters in the aisle lining up to get off that Sara reaches out and grabs hold of his hand. He stops, looks back down at her, and only then realises he’s been holding onto her this entire time.

He opens his mouth to apologise, but then he notices the regret and unease shining back at him in the blue of her eyes, and just like that, _he understands._

Rip speaks up before she can get the apology out. “I like them.”

It’s the right thing to say if the brilliantly, soft smile she gives him then is anything to go by. The feeling that springs to life in his chest at the sight is painfully familiar and it’s yet another road he’s not willing to tread. He clears his throat, falls back on good manners instinctively as he stands up, removing his hand from her arm and waving it in front of him, as if to say, ‘ladies first’.

She quirks an eyebrow and he doesn’t realise the predicament he’s landed himself in until it registers that Sara is sitting in the window seat. She’s already squeezing past him to reach the aisle before he even comprehends what’s happening. And naturally, Sara, _being Sara_ , decides to face him as she passes – the tight space meaning she’s pressed up close and he can feel the burn everywhere she’s touching him despite the layer upon layer of winter clothing. She stops right in front of him and Rip can’t look away.

“Just them?” she asks, voice low, breath warm on his skin. And though there’s mischief gleaming in her gaze, there’s something tentative in the question, in the gentle press of her fingers to the lapel of his coat.

She’s asked him before, was content without a real answer.

He doesn’t think silence will cut it this time.

“No,” he says. “Not just them.”

The mischief disappears, melting into an intensity that has him clenching his fingers at his side to stop himself from reaching out and pulling her even closer. He feels the trail of her eyes over the slightly crooked slant of his nose and down to his lips.

“That’s good to know,” she murmurs; and for a single, wayward moment, he wonders what it would feel like to lean down and press his lips to hers. But then, mercifully, Sara takes those last two steps to the side and Rip breathes out with the distance and tries to forget he ever wondered at all.

Still, there's an odd sense of tension that follows them as they make their way from the platform, dissipating only once they’re inside the station and find Mr Jackson and Miss Tomaz loitering off to one side. Rip’s first thought is that they had been waiting for them to catch up, but then he notices the shifting gazes, flickering back and forth towards the security officer standing near the ticket gates. Sara cottons on faster than he does as she lets out a heavy groan beside him and rolls her eyes.

“Don’t tell me, Zee. You did it again?”

“It’s not my fault they make it so easy.”

“And yeah, now you’re stuck without a ticket. Pretty sure, you can’t jump the barriers this time and get away with it!”

The idea creeps up on him and it’s hard to shake. The last time he’d done such a thing, the guy had deserved it; but to lift a ticket off some poor, unsuspecting soul is categorically _wrong_ , and he’s not that scrawny teenager, living rough on the streets of East London, any more. He can’t justify it, and yet his mouth opens, and the words come out. “I think I may have a solution.”

Sara looks up at him confused. “What are you-”

He doesn’t let her finish as he spots his target and makes a move.

Expensive suit, expensive watch on his hand as he looks down to check the time, clearly in a rush.

_Perfect._

He walks up to him, ignoring the eyes watching him from behind and calls out. He makes his accent thicker and puts on his most charming smile. “Excuse me, sir? You wouldn’t happen to know what time the next train to Central City is, would you?”

The man narrows his beady eyes at him, a sheen of sweat glistening off his heavily creased forehead. “Do I look like I work here?”

Rip puts up his hands in an apology, before slipping them back into his coat pockets. “Sorry, my mistake.”

The man huffs, pushing past, knocking shoulders as he goes, and suddenly he doesn’t feel bad at all.

He waits before spinning on the spot, smirk on his lips and hurries back to the three people standing there, watching him in confusion.

He doesn’t meet Sara’s disbelieving stare. She’s figured it out, but the others haven’t. It isn’t until he removes one hand from his coat pocket, and with it comes one valid, _stolen_ , ticket that they do.

Zari and Jax look back at him, eyes wide, gawking.

“I’d hurry if I were you,” he says, leaning down and offering the ticket as stealthily as he can.

Apparently, Miss Tomaz doesn’t need telling twice. She snatches it from his hands and they all make their way to the gates. They get through without a fuss, and it’s only when they’re clear of the station, half-way down the bustling street – the blare of car horns, tyres splashing in last night’s rain, and the sound of hundreds of shoes on the pavement bouncing against his eardrums – that he hears Jax exclaim, incredulous, “You’re a criminal, dude!”

“I thought Miss Lance would have told you that much already. And, anyway, what would you call Miss Tomaz’s free ride this morning?”

“Point,” Zari acknowledges with a tilt of her head.

“Thought those days were behind you?” Sara chimes in with a raised brow beside him.

“They are, but I figured the man in the suit can afford the fine, or at least talk himself out of it, unlike Miss Tomaz.”

“Ouch.”

“I’m sorry, that was presumptuous, and I mean no offence. It’s just with my experience of U.S. security so far . . .” he drifts off and Zari cuts in.

“I get it, thanks,” she adds on, waving the ticket in hand, before dropping it in one of the rubbish bins they pass.

They part ways once they reach the street corner and it’s Jax who holds out his hand first.

“It was nice to meet you, man,” he says, entirely genuine.

Rip duly shakes it and finds himself being a hundred percent truthful as he nods back and says, “and you. Both of you.”

Zari turns to Sara then, and says rather cryptically, “Yeah, I think he passes.” And with that parting message and matching mischievous grins, she and Jax walk off, crossing the street just as the lights change.

“Ignore them, they’re grade A jackasses,” Sara grumbles, watching them leave.

He chuckles.

They’re both standing under the awning of what appears to be a Polish deli – the half price on pierogi being the giveaway – as people hurry past them on their way to work. Which is what he really should be doing, but there’s something he needs to say first, he just doesn’t know how to.

The thought has been buzzing around his head since it first came to him, and he knows he can't leave until he shares it with her.

“They seem to care about you a great deal,” he starts off with.

The exasperated frown on Sara’s face melts a fraction as she breathes out, “I know.”

He clears his throat, trepidation building as the words start to come together. “I appreciated Miss Tomaz’s offer.”

At Sara’s disbelieving snort, he reassures. “I did.”

He shifts, facing her more fully. “And though I don’t think going after Savage again is the wisest of ideas, at least not right now, _Damien_ _Darhk_ on the other hand . . .”

She turns sharply, breath catching on an inhale, but he barrels on before he changes his mind and backs down. “Darkh needs to be stopped. And I never thought I’d be the one to say this. I’m really not one for world-saving heroics. Deep-down, I’m a selfish man, too wrapped up in my own grief to see the rest of the world’s falling apart not just my own.” He stops, breathes in and out, a hand rubbing over the stubble of his jaw. He’s making a mess of this. He sighs heavily. “Look, maybe we couldn’t save Jonas, or Sin, or the countless others but maybe we can still stop him from destroying more lives. Time stopped for me after I lost Jonas. It doesn’t have to for anyone else.”

Her eyes are a dark blue in this lighting – under the shade of the shop’s canopy, as clouds move overhead blocking out what little winter sun there is, casting the street in a sudden darkness – and he finds himself freefalling into them heart first. Because there’s a sparkle of starlight hidden there, bursting with hope and he can feel it too.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying maybe we should take Miss Tomaz up on her offer. With her skills, yours, someone else I know who might be willing to help, we may have a chance to bring him down once and for all.”

He can see how much she wants it as the thought percolates. She holds his gaze, and Rip wonders at what he sees. The clouds clear, and once more they’re the bright blue he sees behind closed eyelids, and yet he can’t read them any better.

“We?”

He swallows. “If you’ll have me?”

She shakes her head, teeth biting into her lower lip as she stares back. “You know you’re wrong, don’t you?”

He frowns. “About what?”

“You’re not selfish. You’re a good man, Rip Hunter.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that; can only nod and let a flicker of a smile pass his lips. He leaves her then, but not before parting with his final words.

“Just . . _. think about it, Sara_.”

 

*

*

*

 


	7. Please report any suspicious behaviour

 

*

 

Thinking is all Sara does for the next several weeks.

When she’d first met Rip Hunter, not long after her sentencing, she’d sworn to stay away from Damien Darhk; had promised Laurel she wouldn’t go anywhere near him again.

It’s been a daily battle to keep that promise.

Because nothing has changed. In fact, the tales of people vanishing off the streets without a trace, turf wars over drugs and petty crime, and police turning a blind eye have become woven into the fabric of their day to day. It’s normal. The stories have been relegated to the tiniest columns of the _Star City Ledger_ and even then, they’re disappearing. Her dad can feel it, and she can see the disillusionment filling his soul for a job he once loved so much. And it breaks her heart.

Laurel is trying, she knows that, but she’s hitting brick walls every which way she turns, and Sara is _tired._

And then Rip freakin’ Hunter comes out of nowhere and lays it on her like that.

The possibility.

And the earnestness in his expression, the hope for a better future buries itself under her skin – like a splinter she can’t see, but can feel all the time, and can’t dig out.

He doesn’t mention it again. Just drops the bomb in her lap and leaves her to deal with the wires.

Blue or red.

_Blue or red._

Christmas and New Years come and go without fanfare. He doesn’t make a big deal of it, and neither does she. She’s tempted to invite him over but remembers the card in a bag, meant as a joke, but deep down, and after months of thinking over it, had never meant to be a joke at all.

She likes him.

Really likes him.

Which is just typical of her really; falling for the emotionally unavailable. _That’s_ her type.

There’s no great epiphany, nothing that makes her go _fuck it. I’m in._

No, she simply blurts it out after watching Zari work her magic one evening with nothing but her laptop, and a young veteran’s widow – now also a single mother – is richer for it.

“That is so not legal,” she comments from the side-lines.

“Nope. But hey, I’m only getting her what she was conned out of.”

“But won’t she get in trouble?”

“Please,” Zari scoffs, “I’m not some amateur. It’s a clerical error on the government’s part. At least that’s what it says now, see?” She whirls the laptop around in her direction, and all Sara can see is computer code. She takes her word for it. “And anyway, they’re gonna look like complete asshats if they ask for it back.”

She’s not sure the government care too much about looking like asshats but Sara smiles anyway. Because there’s a real sense of satisfaction and pride lighting Zari up. And Sara wants to be able to feel that too.

“Okay.”

Zari nods, and carries right on.

“No,” Sara says, dropping into the seat beside her, hand squeezing her forearm to get her attention, “I mean, _okay._ ”

She watches as her meaning slowly sinks in and the realisation dawns. “Ohhhh . . . _Okay_. Right. Wow. _Really_?”

“There’s just one other person I need to talk to first.”

At that, she grins.

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously, though,” Zari shrugs. “The more the merrier. I’m sure we can find some use for a former cut-purse. _And_ , from what I read, the man’s not a bad shot.”

Sara shakes her head and leaves her friend to do what she does best.

 

*

 

There’s something different about her this morning.

Rip spots it straightaway. The way she’s not leaning back against the headrest with the usual smirk on her lips as she watches his every step. How, instead, she’s literally sitting on the edge of her seat, hands busy picking at the peeling black polish on her bitten nails, smile noticeably absent and tension lining every crease of skin.

“Miss Lance,” he says as always, sliding into the seat in front of her.

“Rip,” she says this time, and his heart does a funny little flutter with a single syllable of change from the status quo. It’s silly, he knows, but with that one utterance of his name he thinks the world’s shifted several degrees on its axis and he’s the only one on this planet who can feel it.

“What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head, tries to turn her lips into a smile. It’s tentative at best. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Sara?”

She raises her eyebrows, and she starts to look a little more like herself. “Bringing out the big guns, huh?”

He must look confused as she teases. “My name. You said my name. I’ve noticed you don’t really use it all that often. It’s usually _Miss Lance._ ”

“Ah,” he says, sitting back, “force of habit, I’m afraid. But, _Sara_ , you seem to be trying to change the subject, which you realise, only whets my curiosity more.”

She watches him a moment longer and he can see the second the decision’s made. Steel flashes in her eyes – a sliver of silver – and then she’s leaning forwards, lowering her voice and the world tips over completely. “You were right. I need to go after Darhk. _Are you in_?”

 

*

 

Sara doesn’t understand why the doubt creeps in sitting there, waiting for him to show. It’s funny how she never doubts that he’ll get on every morning, stumbling through the same doors and making his way down to her with that familiar world-weary gait. But for some reason, the longer she sits there, picking at her nails, the longer the doubt has time to dig its claws in. Maybe, for the first time, he won’t show.

When the train rolls to a stop at his station, and the automatic doors open with a hiss, she holds her breath and waits. It’s the wayward mop of hair she sees first before he’s lifting his head up and staring back at her.

And yet, the doubt doesn’t leave her. Because there’s something she needs to ask him. She knows it’s ridiculous really. He’s the one who gave her the idea in the first place, so it’s unlikely he’ll turn her down. But still, there’s a chance. And she won’t know until she asks.

_“Are you in?”_

Her heart thumps away in her chest as the words leave her mouth. His eyes are the brightest green she’s ever seen them, and they rove over her face, searching. He meets her gaze once more, and lets his lips curl into a slow, rare smile. And for one small second – the thumping stops entirely.

“I am,” he answers.

She smiles back. Wide and bright and this time it’s _his_ eyes that drop down to follow the curve of her mouth. The gaze holds long enough that her hopeful heart desperately tries to read into it, but then he's looking away, settling in his seat, and just like that, the moment is gone.

He clears his throat. “So, what’s the plan?”

Sara swallows, sitting back herself. “It’s a work in progress. Zari’s gonna fill us in.”

He raises a brow, swivels his head to look over the top of the seats and up and down the carriage.

“She’ll be joining us later,” she answers his unspoken question. “Getting on at my, our, usual stop.”

“Ah,” he says, a ghost of a smirk on his lips.

He’s never really said anything about the fact she continues to go out of her way, every day, to catch the train before him. It’s just another one of those things they don’t talk about.

“She said she’ll be bringing a friend along with her who’ll be able to help.”

“Mr Jackson?”

“No, although Jax is in, for whatever we need. But no, he’s not coming today. He said he’s got some stuff he needs to sort out at work.”

“Right.”

And for the first time, in the several months that they’ve gotten to know each other, an awkward silence descends, and Sara doesn’t know what to do with it. She feels uncomfortable in her skin – a nervous sort of energy bubbling under it.

She knows what it is.

She’s already acknowledged her growing attraction to the man sitting opposite her but never had she thought it could be mutual. She’s always been so good at reading people, but it seems six months without flexing her investigative muscles has made her excruciatingly weak at making even the most basic of deductions.

But then the pink cheeks, the fidgeting and the eyes that have now taken to looking at anything other than her, has her believing that maybe she’s not alone in her feelings. His fingers drum against the table and it’s to the same beat she noticed the first time she saw him. He’s looking out the window again, eyes shuttered, and she wants to ask him.

_Do you think you’ll ever be ready to move on?_

But she doesn’t.

The moment disappears, and they soon arrive at the next stop. She spots Zari easily, and waves her over. There’s another woman following behind: tall, dark-skinned, absolutely stunning, and Sara _recognizes her_.

“Hey, aren’t you-” she starts to say, but it seems she’s not the only one who does, and apparently, Rip even knows her name.

“Miss Jiwe,” he says, although he looks just as shocked as her as he watches the woman slide into the seat next to him. Zari plops herself down in the seat opposite, dropping her laptop carefully onto the table as she does, and not wasting any time in booting it up.

“You know each other?” Zari asks, not looking up from her screen.

It’s the other woman who answers. “We’ve been introduced. Mr Hunter, right? You work with Nathaniel at the College?”

“Uh yes. Yes, we’ve met briefly.”

“Huh,” Sara breathes out, “so it really was love at first sight for the two of you? Or should I say, first coffee spill.”

She looks away, embarrassed. “I admit, that probably wasn’t my finest moment.”

“No,” Sara interrupts, still a little in awe. “No, that was _awesome_.”

She feels Rip’s gaze on her, the drumming has started up again and he clearly doesn’t share the same sentiment. She can feel the tension radiating off him from across the table, and with it she remembers what this is all about. She comes back down to Earth, her smile disappearing with the fall, clears her throat and asks what he’s too polite to. “I’m assuming Zee’s told you what this is about?”

The woman nods.

“So, I hope you don’t mind me asking; why are you getting involved and why should we trust you?”

Zari cuts in before she has a chance to answer. “Because _I_ trust Amaya, okay? And we’re going to need her.”

She hopes Zari will understand that this isn’t about her. She trusts Zari implicitly but Rip’s risking a lot getting caught up in this, and it’s for his benefit that she asks.

Amaya doesn’t seem to mind though as she shrugs. “No, it’s fine, I get it." She shifts in her seat and lowers her voice, "I work for Darhk.”

That doesn’t help to reassure either of them as Rip sits a little straighter, and even her gut starts to curl with uncertainty.

“I’m his PA,” she continues, “have been for the past three years. So I know _exactly_ the type of evil that man is. I know things, so many things, that we can use to pin the bastard down, once and for all.” The last few words are spoken in a furious whisper, and she doesn’t miss the way Amaya looks over her shoulder.

This is personal, Sara realises. But isn’t it for all of them?

“What did he do to you?”

She shakes her head. “It doesn't matter, because I'm not going to let him turn me into another victim. But let’s just say I’ve met the devil and his name is Damien Darhk. I’ve seen what he’s done, know what he’s doing to this city and I can’t sit idly by any longer. If you guys are planning to take him down, then I want in. And I know everything about that man – what he’s doing, what time of day, and with who. Zari’s right, you’re going to need me.”

“And if you get caught, Miss Jiwe, what then?”

“I won’t,” she bats back confidently. “I have a safety net in place, if this all goes pear-shaped.”

“Which it won’t,” Zari adds.

“One can only hope,” Rip says on a sigh, running a hand over his mouth and jaw.

“Well, we do at least have access to Darhk’s computer servers now,” Zari says with a grin.

Sara’s eyes widen. “No way.”

This time it’s Rip with the shifty eyes as he looks around them. Thankfully no one’s suspicions have been raised, the rest of the passengers on the carriage still busy wrapped up in their own little worlds. “Should you be doing that here?”

“Relax,” Zari says, “I’m a ghost in the network. They can’t see me, and they can’t trace me either. But this is great. This’ll help.”

A thought comes to Sara then, and the glimmer of hope that had been lit aflame wavers in the wind, one small blow away from snuffing out. “You know any information we do dig up is just going to be labelled inadmissible by the courts. Plus, he has god knows how many judges in his pocket. There’s no way of doing this cleanly.”

And as much as she wants to stick a knife in that man’s throat and watch him bleed. As much as those thoughts had preoccupied months and months of her thoughts and she’d been dreaming in red, she’s found that over time, the world’s returned to one filled with infinite colour and not just the one. Her blood doesn’t seem to boil in her veins any more. It’s no longer as painful as it used to be. She’s angry. Sure. She hates him. Yes. Of course she does. But she’s not fuelled by vengeance any longer. It’s _justice_ , she wants.

She wonders if that has anything to do with the man sitting in front of her. She’s confessed to her changing thoughts, remembers feeling apprehensive as to how he’d take it given the fact she’d known those same vengeance fuelled nightmares plagued him too. But he’d smiled at her that particular morning – just as the sun had peeked out from behind overcast skies and the flicker of light through the windows had nearly blinded her – and he’d told her he was _happy for her_ and _was glad to hear it._

He’s never said any more on the subject, but she hopes that in some way she’s managed to help him too.

That she’s come to mean _something_ to him.

Just as he has to her.

“Maybe there is,” Rip says then, rousing her from her own dangerous thoughts. Thoughts she knows, deep down, will only pave the way to heartache. “I think I know someone who can help.”

 

*

 

Rip believes himself to be a great judge of character. And Miss Jiwe is no exception to that rule. When he’d first met her, very briefly, at the faculty Christmas party and had been introduced by Dr Heywood, he’d recognised her immediately. It was also hard not to put two and two together at the sight of his colleague’s beaming smile and the fact he hadn’t stopped talking about her for weeks.

Dr Heywood had admitted at one point that he’d thought she was _too good_ for him and that he’d one day wake to find this was all just a dream. Rip hadn’t really known what to say to that, except to purse his lips and awkwardly pat the man on his back.

But then on observing the couple he’d realised she was just as enamoured with him, and on talking to her, he realised there was a kindness to Miss Jiwe, a humility, and a quiet kind of strength.

Therefore, it’s not hard to believe it’s the same woman offering to get herself wrapped up in their crusade, but the momentary doubt is instinctual and thankfully Sara takes the lead and asks the question he can’t get his tongue to form. _Why should we trust you?_

There’s not a shred of deceit in her answer. And he would know.

After all, who better to spot one of their own kind than another liar?

She reminds him of someone else too – just as kind, just as honest, and just as likely to want to fight alongside them for what’s right. Because Rip hears what Sara is saying loud and clear – there’s a line there now that she doesn’t want to cross, and he thinks he has just the solution. _If_ he can get the man to agree to work with them, of course.

“I think I know someone who can help.”

“Is this the same person you mentioned before?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“I’d uh rather wait until I’ve had a chance to speak to him first before I say.”

Sara frowns at him, but lets it be.

“Okay, cryptic,” Zari comments, slamming her laptop shut. This does get a few startled and annoyed glances in their direction, but they’re dutifully ignored. “Well, you get on that. And let us know.”

Rip nods.

Their train ride comes to an end shortly after. The journeys seem to last a fraction of the time they used to these days, which logically makes little sense, but it isn’t something he’s willing to unpick.

Zari and Amaya leave them outside the station; the former mentioning something about arranging a meeting for the gang once all the pieces come together and letting them know in due course.

He wrinkles his nose at the word ‘gang’ – because yes, what they’re planning to do would normally be viewed as outside the constraints of the law, but their intentions are noble, heroic even, and surely that should be reflected in their collective moniker? He’s positive there’s a name somewhere that would suit them.

“I don’t know,” Zari says with a shrug after noting his visible objection. “Squad, team, crew, whatever – it’s a work in progress.” She leaves them with a mock salute and a wave.

And just like that, he and Sara are alone again, standing there in silence.

Well, as silent as it can be in the middle of a bustling city’s main street. There’s the blare of a car horn as some idiot runs a red light, the ting-a-ling of a bike bell as another mounts the pavement and pushes pedestrians aside, justifiable curses falling from their lips. Rip realises then that they’re standing in that same exact spot where they’d first learnt each other’s names.

He feels like he needs to say something, and the way she’s watching him has him thinking that she wants him to. Just what that something may be? He’s not sure, but the pounding of his heart gives him a clue.

He can sense her deflating as the moment extends. “Okay,” she says with a nod. “Well, I guess I’ll just see you tomorrow then.”

“Yes. Great. That you will.” He winces. Sara doesn’t notice, she’s looking back at the road, clearly planning her escape.

“Okay then,” she says once again, turning to leave and something in him just snaps. Before he even knows what he’s doing, his hand is flying out and catching hold of her hand.

“Miss Lance, _Sara_ , wait.”

She turns back slowly, her eyes on their hands and he resists the urge to pull his own back to safety.

“What you said earlier – about doing this cleanly . . .” He’s not sure where he’s going with this. When he’d grabbed hold of her hand, this hadn’t been the topic of conversation in mind, but it seems his bravery only reaches so far.

She looks back at him intently, waiting. She doesn’t let go.

“I remember you saying once, how you’ve moved forward from wanting to see more blood spilled, that you’d be happy with Laurel getting him life in prison. And that would be justice enough. I just think, in some cases, _for some people_ , being put six feet under is all the justice they deserve.”

“You’re saying . . .”

He breathes in and out. “I’m _asking_ , if we can’t do this cleanly, is the alternative really so bad?”

She steps closer, she still hasn’t let go of his hand and it buoys him. But then she speaks, voice a low murmur and everything stops. “Are we still talking about Damien Darhk here? _Or Vandal Savage_?”

He feels like the wind is knocked out of him, and his expression must give it all away.

Sara shakes her head softly. “Still? Even now?”

He breathes out, and disappointment turns the brilliant blue of her eyes dull. “You do know Jonas wouldn’t want that, don’t you?”

He breathes in sharply. Her words unleash a painful bucket of ice water and his lungs seize with it. He drops her hand, but she doesn’t step away. Instead, she asks, a question layered on layer after layer, “Do you think you’ll ever be ready to move on?”

She doesn’t wait for his answer.

Not that he has one.

 

*

*

*

 


	8. Enjoy your journey

 

*

 

Their last conversation plays over and over in her head. It’s like a damn scratched up DVD, stuck on that one scene, frozen on an unfortunate close-up, mid-blink, gaping mouth, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t skip over it.

_Do you think you’ll ever be ready to move on?_

She’s mortified. Can’t believe what she’d asked him, and how in those few words, she’d given away more of herself than she’d ever wanted to.

Because if it hadn’t already been obvious, she’d practically scribbled her feelings in bold, large font on a placard and waved it in his face.

She berates herself for thinking that their friendship could ever have meant the same to both of them. To think their friendship these last few months had helped him, just as much as it had helped her – in ways she didn’t even know she had needed before.

But then she remembers: the man had lost _his son_. There’s no comparison; no telling if he’ll ever move on and it’s unfair for her to have expected a little soul-baring and frank conversation between them to have been enough to heal.

If Sara had a therapist, she’s sure they’d tell her not to compare her trauma to others. That they can’t equate, and yet she can’t help it.

Still, it’s not his fault.

And yet, she doesn’t turn up for her community service the following morning. And the morning after that? She climbs on a different carriage altogether.

She doesn’t see him and breathes a sigh of relief. Hollow though it is.

She misses him.

Which is ridiculous.

Sara tells herself to get over it. He’s just some random stranger she met on a train. He doesn’t mean anything to her.

It’s all lies, but then she’s used to telling herself those.

Because he may have started out that way, and if she hadn’t let her own curiosity overpower judgement, it would have _stayed_ that way.

It doesn’t stop her from wondering though if he’s thinking about her, about where she is, _worrying_ what’s happened to her. And it takes three days for the guilt to seep in, for her to start berating herself for overreacting and to decide that _tomorrow,_ tomorrow she’ll go back to getting on the stop before his and she’ll start acting like the damn grown-ass woman she is.

As it turns out though, Rip doesn’t even last a full week either.

That morning the train is packed as it normally is. The seats are all taken, and Sara finds herself gripping hold of a pole near the automatic doors. It means she gets a blast of cold air every time the doors open and finds herself being squashed further and further in as more passengers climb aboard.

Her gaze wanders, more than once, to _those_ seats in this carriage. The equivalent of theirs. Of course, she doesn’t expect to see him, but can’t help looking anyway.

There’s a blonde woman sitting there, a stern look on her face as she reads her newspaper. The headline on the front cover reads: DARHK DAYS ARE OVER – ONE STEP CLOSER TO VICTORY.

The bile rises in her throat again; her mind flashing back to last night’s family dinner. The hopelessness that seemed to radiate from not just Laurel but her dad too, the stench of defeat permeating her parents’ house and she’d felt sick to her stomach. No one had eaten very much at all.

Zari had rung her that afternoon – made her promise to hold on, have faith, she was working on the plan and _soon,_ she’d said, _I promise soon, we’ll have him, and he won’t hurt anyone else. Ever again._

It’s hard to keep the hope alive, though. And seeing the bastard’s face every which way she turns this morning is really not helping.

She doesn’t realise the severity of her scowl until the blonde woman looks up and spots it. She looks back at her confused, before narrowing her own gaze and glaring back.

Sara finally breaks the stare-off, turns away to readjust her headphones and blasts _The Killers_ from her phone. And just like that, as Brandon Flowers starts chanting with increasing fervour ‘I got soul, but I’m not a soldier’ over and over, the tension starts to fade away.

Well, that is right up until she spots a familiar flash of brown. A shade of brown she can no longer associate with anyone other than _him_.

The rational part of her brain tells her it can’t be him. Because a) she got on a later train, and b) a different carriage, and yet her eyes trace the familiar outline of the coat, up the stubble covered jawline, the lips pressed flat into a tentative _almost_ smile, and then finally to those damn eyes. 

Yep.

It’s Rip Hunter. In the flesh.

He holds the same pole as her, hand resting just above hers and not quite touching. He’s close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating off him, and as the train rocks on its tracks, speeding up and slowing down, he tilts forwards coming closer before falling back on his heels. His hand slips a touch, enough that it presses against her skin and it takes everything in her not to pull away at the burn.

“Miss Lance,” he says, and though she can’t hear him, she can read his lips just fine, and her stomach wants to swallow her heart whole with it.

He must read her face for one of confusion as he leans forward and gently nudges at her headphones.

She reaches up and pulls them down, resting them around her neck and presses pause on her phone.

“Rip? What are you doing here?”

She regrets the question as soon as she asks, because why wouldn’t he be on the train? But she’s sure he knows what she really means.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

_No I haven’t_ are the words that reflexively sit on the top of her tongue, but Rip simply shakes his head at her as if he knows the rebuttal had been right there, and speaks once more. “At first, I thought you missed the train – but then I thought it unlike you. You’ve never missed a train once in the time I’ve come to know you and we started . . .”

He trails off.

_Whatever this is._

He clears his throat. “Then I thought perhaps you’d been taken ill? But then . . . then I saw you through the window, standing on the platform yesterday morning as the train came into your station, and well . . .”

He doesn’t need to say any more, and Sara can’t hold his gaze any longer. She opens her mouth to apologise but he beats her to it. A heavy sigh that leaves his lips and she looks back at him bewildered.

“Why are _you_ sorry?” she asks.

“Because I know how much progress you’ve made with your feelings about Darhk and how proud you’ve been of it. It was wrong of me to confuse it with my own issues with Savage.”

_Right._ Of course. What was she expecting him to say?

She shakes her head. “No, it’s okay. You made a good point, not that I think it’s gonna matter now, anyway.”

He furrows his brow at the comment.

“Darhk,” she clarifies, and then tilts her head towards one of the many newspapers being held up around the carriage.

“Ah,” he nods, “right. There’s still time, Miss Lance. The case doesn’t go before the jury until the end of the week.”

Her expression mustn’t convey a lot of confidence in those words, as he goes on to ask, “has Miss Tomaz not made any breakthroughs yet?”

“She’s working on it.”

“Okay, well I think I have some good news at least. I’ve managed to convince Dr Palmer to help us.”

_Dr Palmer?_ She thinks she’s misheard him, and she really should address that particular bombshell, but instead, Sara finds herself blurting, “you know you don’t have any obligation to help us with this, don’t you?”

“Who said anything about obligation? Like I told you, Darhk needs to be stopped and I’d like to help if I can. I’ve been wallowing long enough.”

She feels it then, his hand wrapping around hers as she grips the pole a little tighter. There’s something burning bright in his eyes as he ducks down just a little to hold her gaze. “You were right about that too, about the fact Jonas wouldn’t want me to be consumed by vengeance for the rest of my life. I think maybe that’s why my bullet missed its mark.”

It’s a nice thought. Loved ones looking down on you, watching over you, safeguarding your dreams and your future, stopping you from making choices you can’t undo. She’s not sure she believes it, but for Rip’s sake she’ll buy into it.

“Maybe.”

“And maybe you were right about the other thing too.”

“What other thing?”

“Moving on.”

She holds her breath, throat dry, heart thundering away in her chest and she wonders if even with the screeching of the train on the tracks, the constant hum of noise onboard, he can hear it.

“Yeah?”

He smiles then, and it seems lighter than all those that came before – few and far between though they’ve been – and not weighed down by a lifetime of mistrust that sometimes, good things _do_ happen.

“Yeah,” he says. _“Someday, maybe.”_

 

*

 

If he had any hope of denying Sara Lance meant more to him than he ever could have expected, it was blown to pieces the moment he stepped onto that train that morning to find his seat empty.

It was jarring to say the least.

After months of seeing that smirk brighten up their corner of the carriage, he could feel its loss acutely.

That first morning he’d opted to sit in the seat opposite, as usual, convincing himself that maybe she was just running late, and that she’d get on at the next stop, or the stop after that. And it wasn’t until the train had started to fill up, and a dark-haired, middle-aged lady settled into Sara’s seat, opening up a Terry Pratchett novel and disappearing into another world, that he realised she wasn’t coming.

He tried not to read into it.

Maybe, she was sick? Struck down with a cold, perhaps.

But it happened again, the following morning. He’d debated calling her – after all, he had her number in his phonebook, added by Sara herself, but he’d decided against it. It made little sense, but whatever this was between them, it existed solely within the confines of this bubble of a journey. Calling her, or showing up on her doorstep, would burst it, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to face the real world yet. The real world that existed beyond this train carriage.

But then he’d spotted her – standing on the platform, further behind, arms folded across her chest, head down, kicking at the ground. He’d had to strain his neck to watch from his window as she followed the crowd and got on a different carriage.

That answered that then.

She was avoiding him.

Deep down he’d known but had refused to believe it.

Because then he’d have to read into what she’d really been asking him with those dull blue eyes – dejected, mournful, as if he’d chewed up all the hope in the world and spat it out.

_Do you think you’ll ever be ready to move on?_

It’s not really a fair question, he thinks. He’ll never get over losing Jonas, but then he thinks that disappointment he’d seen shuttering her face, had been more about his anger towards Vandal Savage. Because Sara was right, Jonas would be disappointed and maybe the idea of _moving on_ wasn’t such a terrible one.

Of course, part of him knows that wasn’t all she’d meant.

But it’s not until he’s standing in front of her, having left early that morning to stand waiting on her platform, watching from a distance as she’d purposely missed the 08:13 and climbed onto the next train; watching how she’d gone from losing herself in her own thoughts to the glint of recognition when she’d finally noticed him. It’s not until the disjointed conversation that followed, and the spark of hope that ignited at the suggestion she’d been right, and the way she’d barely breathed out her questioning _“yeah?”_ that he realises she’d meant it _exactly_ how he’d thought she had.

And so, he says it.

_Someday, maybe._

And with the flicker of a smile on her lips, the blush on her cheeks as she stares up at him, Sara Lance makes him believe that someday may be a lot sooner than either of them realises.

“That’s great, Rip,” she says, clearing her throat. “That’s . . . really _great_.”

There’s an awkward sort of tension that fills the space between them then, and he knows he’s to blame for it, because, really, truly, now would be the time for him to say something _more._ But he’s never been very good at this sort of thing, and in any case, it doesn’t even end up mattering, because Sara’s phone buzzes at that exact moment – right about the time his does the same.

He lets go of her hand to pull out his own from his coat pocket as she swipes across the screen of hers with her thumb, eyes flickering down to read the message.

She looks up at him, shows him her screen.

It’s the same text message he reads on his own.

**Okay, would-be Legends. Listen up, our place at 2100.**

**Let’s get this show on the road. Z.**

_Hmmm Legends, he likes the sound of that._

He shows her his screen in turn.

“I suppose we’re really going to do this.”

“I suppose we are,” she says with a grin, and she’s starting to look a lot more like that woman he first glimpsed across a train aisle – the one that made that second hand start ticking again, made time flow once more in the right direction and made him believe that life exists beyond the past and present.

“Oh!” she says suddenly, as if just remembering. “Ray Palmer? How did you manage that?”

He chuckles. “Didn’t take much convincing. He’s a good man.”

“So are you.”

It’s not the first time she’s said it, but it’s certainly the first time he believes it.

 

*

*

*

 

Nine o’clock in the evening takes its sweet time getting here.

Sara feels the drag of time as a sick feeling in her gut, and an itch under her knuckles – she’s sorely tempted to wrap them up in tape and start swinging away at her punching bag.

It’s Jax who notices.

“Relax,” he says. “They’ll be here.”

“Mmhmm,” Zari adds her two cents, sitting there in her favourite chair, laptop perched on her knees, hand delving into the pack of jelly beans Jax is holding next to her.

They’re all late, Sara notes in frustration and somehow that’s not at all surprising. Nor is the fact that it’s Amaya who turns up first. _With Dr Heywood on her tail._

She raises an eyebrow at the sight of the history professor, but Nate simply shrugs – “Hey, I can be of use too, you know? _Need a distraction?_ On it. _Getaway driver?_ I’m your man!”

Sara purses her lips, sceptical, but the overeager expression on the man’s face is kind of hard to ignore and so she shrugs. “Sure, why the hell not? Come on in!”

The next to ring the doorbell is none other than Ray Palmer, just as Rip had promised.

He gives Sara a bright grin, brilliant teeth on display and puts out his hand for a shake. “You must be Sara Lance. Rip Hunter sent me. Something about saving the world.”

Sara snorts. Of course, that’s how the man got him to agree to this.

“Yeah,” she nods, “something like that.”

She notices then, the older man standing behind him.

“Oh,” Ray says, noticing her questioning gaze, “this is Professor Martin Stein – we were at the same conference this evening on the possibilities of transmutation, and its real-world applications –”

“It’s a truly fascinating scientific field –”

“I’m sure,” Sara murmurs, her head turning from one scientist to the other as Ray continues. There’s something vaguely familiar about the Professor but she brushes it aside.

“- And we got talking on our way out, and I told him about our plans –”

“Of course you did.”

“- I must say, I never really trusted that man. Damien Darhk. Something very suspicious about his face.”

“- and he’d like to help too,” Ray finishes.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Miss Lance,” Martin Stein says then, stepping forward.

What was it Zari had said? The more the merrier? Maybe it’s the familiarity, or the fact he simply has a kind face, but Sara finds herself returning the handshake and meaning it when she replies. “And you, Professor.”

“This is all legal, isn’t it?” Ray bends down to whisper in her ear as they pass by and enter her apartment.

“Absolutely,” she lies with a butter-wouldn’t-melt grin.

The clock turns to ten minutes past nine and Sara’s thoughts turn to Rip – the last to arrive. He still hasn’t shown up and that sick churning in her stomach starts up again with a vengeance. And once more, Jax reads her like a book.

He walks over to her and wraps an arm around her shoulder and pulls her into his side for a hug. “The man will show, Sara. Pretty sure he’s got it as bad for you as you have for him.”

She pushes him off her and tries to control her damn cheeks. “Shut up.”

And it’s as if by magic, the doorbell rings right then and apparently Rip has uncanny timing. Jax waggles his eyebrows in that annoying way that he does at the noise. She shoves him one last time, takes a breath in and opens the door.

But it’s not Rip.

“Is this the right place?”

Sara lets the door bang open and stares up at yet another vaguely familiar face.

Instinctively, the words, “nope, sorry,” fall from her mouth, but then the man’s lifting up a heavily creased piece of paper with NEEDED. THUG FOR HIRE written in bold print across the top with a cell number she recognises along the bottom.

She turns to look over her shoulder and calls out, “Zeeee!! You want to explain this one to me?”

Zari lifts her gaze from her screen and doesn’t bat an eyelid as she just waves him over. “Yeah, this is the place. Come on in!”

The burly man, who she’ll later learn is named Mick Rory, grins back at her and walks right in with a wink.

She stares after him as he waltzes in and makes himself at home in one of their armchairs and helps himself to a beer.

“And how exactly are we gonna pay him?” She asks to no one apparently, because the whole room’s talking over each other like they’ve known each other for years.

“In cigarettes, perhaps? I do believe I owe the man a packet.”

The smile that takes over her face needs no thought, and the nervous fluttering that had seized control of her stomach all evening relinquishes its grasp, but only to set its sights on an organ further north.

She turns back, and there he is.

He smirks back at her, and for the first time that night, she finally believes that maybe they’ll pull this off.

“Sorry, I’m late,” he says, and then the smirk softens into a smile and she understands him just fine. “It took me forever to get here.”

 

*

*

*

 

By the time his watch hits eight o’clock Rip’s talked himself in and out of going ahead with this insane, utterly ridiculous, and highly likely to fail plan of getting Darhk to, at best, incriminate himself, and at worst (and as a last resort), get severely maimed, several times over.

He stands there on the platform, the one hand turning _that_ card over and over in his hand and watches one, and then two, trains go by.

He thinks about all the ways this could go wrong.

Thinks about all the ways his life _has_ gone wrong to get him here to this moment.

The night air is cold, and the station looks different under the yellow lights and starless sky.

There’s so many things he’d change if he could. It’s a given, and he doesn’t think that’ll ever change.

But there’s a tiny asterisk next to it now, a tiny starburst of reassurance and hope, that says he knows that he can’t change the past and _it’s okay._

And it’s okay too, to think about the things that may never have been if life hadn’t lead him along this path. To think about all the things that _could be._ All the things that could go _right._

And it’s as that thought hammers inside his head to the beat thumping inside his chest, that he hears the overhead tannoy announcing the next train is running late.

The 20:13 train to Star City Central Station.

Standing alone on the platform, Rip laughs. It earns him a few suspicious stares and people keep their safe distance, but he really couldn’t care less.

He doesn’t believe in signs, but thinks surely, this must be one.

And when the train finally rolls into the station and he climbs aboard, he picks his window seat – forward facing this time – and lets himself, for once, sit back and enjoy the journey.

By the time he reaches the address on the worn card in his pocket, it’s nearly a quarter past nine, but the light spilling out into the corridor from the open doorway and the sound of indistinct chatter tells him he’s not too late.

It’s her voice he hears the clearest though amongst the noise.

The exasperated _“and how exactly are we gonna pay him?”_ enough to curl the edges of his mouth up. She doesn’t notice him, turned as she is away from her front door, but he’s close enough to spot the back of a familiar khaki green jacket, bald head and burly build and remembers.

“In cigarettes, perhaps?” he says, “I do believe I owe the man a packet.”

She spins back around and the smile on her face is beautiful.

“Sorry, I’m late,” he says. “It took me forever to get here.”

And he thinks, from the look in her eyes, that she knows exactly what he means.

He holds out his hand. “Miss Lance.”

She shakes her head, grins wider. “Mr Hunter.”

And as she clasps his hand in hers and pulls him in, shutting the door behind them, he thinks that maybe.

Just maybe.

Someday, _starts today._

 

*

*

*

**End.**

 

 


End file.
